-K^ 


BALLADES    AND    VERSES 
VAIN 


BY 

ANDREW   LANG 

AUTHOR   OF    "HELEN   OF   TROY  " 


*  Brattles,  virelais,  Ballades,  and  Verses  vain." 

—  Tlie  Faerie  Queene. 


NEW-YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1884 


'HORARY 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

To  the  Reader        .        .        .        Austin  Dobson     .     .  vii. 

XXXVI.— BALLADES: 

Ballade  Dedicatory 3 

Ballade  of  Literary  Fame 5 

Ballade  of  Blue  China j 

Ballade  of  the  Book-hunter g 

Ballade  to  Theocritus 11 

Valentine  in  Form  of  Ballade 13 

Ballade  of  Summer 15 

Ballade  of  Autumn 17 

Ballade  of  Old  Plays 19 

Ballade  of  Roulette 21 

Ballade  of  Fr^re  Lubin 23 

Ballade  of  Queen  Anne 25 

Ballade  of  Primitive  Man 27 

Ballade  of  Sleep 29 

Ballade  of  Cleopatra's  Needle 31 

Ballade  of  True  Wisdom 33 

Ballade  of  the  Muse 35 

Ballade  for  a  Baby 37 

Ballade  of  his  Own  Country 39 

Ballade  of  the  Tweed .  41 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Ballade  of  The  Royal  Game  of  Golf         ...        43 

Ballade  of  the  Midnight  Forest 45 

Ballade  of  Cricket .47 

Ballade  of  The  Book-man's  Paradise      .         .         .         -49 

Ballade  of  Worldly  Wealth 51 

Ballade  of  the  May  Term 53 

Ballade  of  Dead  Cities 55 

Ballade  of  the  Voyage  to  Cythera         .        .        .        .57 

Ballade  of  Life 59 

Ballade  of  ^^Esthetic  Adjectives 61 

Ballade  of  Dead  Ladies 63 

Ballade  of  Good  Counsel 65 

Ballade  Amoureuse 67 

Ballade  against  the  Jesuits 69 

Ballade  of  Blind  Love 71 

Ballade  of  his  Choice  of  a  Sepulchre        ...        73 


Dizain        .        .        .        6y  A  usiin  Dobson  .  75 

VERSES  VAIN: 

Almae  Matres.       . 79 

Nightingale  Weather 82 

Colinette 84 

From  the  East  to  the  West 86 

A  Dream 87 

Twilight  on  Tweed 88 

A  Sunset  of  Watteau 90 

Romance 92 

A  Sunset  on  Yarrow        ...  .         ...  93 

A  Portrait  of  1783 94 

The  Barbarous  Birds 97 


CONTENTS. 
POST    HOMERICA:  page 

Hesperothen 103 

The  Seekers  for  PHyEACiA 103 

The  Departure  from  PnyEACiA 106 

A  Ballad  of  Departure 108 

They  Hear  the  Sirens  for  the  Second  Time        .        .  109 

Circe's  Isle  Revisited iii 

The  Limit  of  Lands 113 

The  Shade  of  Helen 115 

PisiDicE 117 


SONNETS : 

The  Odyssey 121 

The  Sirens ,        .      122 

Love's  Easter 124 

Twilight 125 

BlON 126 

San  Terenzo 127 

Natural  Theology 128 

Homer 129 

Ronsard 130 

GERARD  DE  Nerval 131 

In  Ithaca 132 

Dreams 133 

Homeric  Unity 134 

Ideal 135 


TRANSLATIONS : 

Hymn  to  the  Winds 139 

A  Vow  to  Heavenly  Venus 140 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

April 141 

Of  his  Lady's  Old  Age 145 

Shadows  of  his  Lady 146 

Moonlight 147 

The  Grave  and  the  Rose 148 

The  Birth  of  Butterflies 149 

An  Old  Tune 150 

Spring  in  the  Student's  Quarter  ....       151 

Spring.     (After  Meleager.) 153 

Old  Loves 154 

Iannoula 156 

The  Milk  White  Doe 157 

A  LA  belle  Hel^ne 160 

Burial  of  Moli^re 162 

Before  the  Snow 163 

The  Cloud  Chorus 164 


Laughter  and  song  the  poet  brings. 
And  lends  them  form  and  gives  them  ■wings; 
Then  sets  his  chirping  squadron  Jree 
To  post  at  luill  by  land  or  sea, 
Andjind  their  home,  if  that  may  be. 

Laughter  and  so7ig  this  poet,  too, 
O  l^estern  brothers,  sends  to  you  : 

With  dcubtjul  flight  the  darting  train 
Have  crossed  the  bleak  Atlantic  main, — 
Novj  luarm  them  in  your  hearts  again  ! 
A.  D. 


Mr.  Austin  Dobson  has  been  so  iindas  to  superintend 
the  making  of  the  following  selectionfrom  "  Ballads 
and  Lyrics  of  Old  France"  (1872),  "Ballades  in 
Blue  China"  (1880,  1881,  1883),  and  from  verses 
previously  unprinted  or  not  collected. 


BALLADES, 


BALLADE    DEDICATORY. 


TO 

MRS.    ELTON 

OF    WHITE    STAUNTON. 


THE  painted  Briton  built  his  mound, 
And  left  his  celts  and  clay, 
On  yon  fair  slope  of  sunlit  ground 
That  fronts  your  garden  gay; 
The  Roman  came,  he  bore  the  sway, 
He  bullied,  bought,  and  sold. 
Your  fountain  sweeps  his  works  away 
Beside  your  manor  old  ! 

3 


'BALLADES. 

But  still  his  crumbling  urns  are  found 

Within  the  window-bay, 

Where  once  he  listened  to  the  sound 

That  lulls  you  day  by  day ;  — 

The  sound  of  summer  winds  at  play, 

The  noise  of  waters  cold 

To  Yarty  wandering  on  their  way. 

Beside  your  manor  old  ! 

The  Roman  fell :  his  firm-set  bound 
Became  the  Saxon's  stay; 
The  bells  made  music  all  around 
For  monks  in  cloisters  grey, 
Till  fled  the  monks  in  disarray 
From  their  warm  chantry's  fold, 
The  Abbots  slumber  as  they  may. 
Beside  your  manor  old ! 

ENVOY. 

Creeds,  empires,  peoples,  all  decay, 
Down  into  darkness,  rolled  ; 
May  life  that  's  fleet  be  sweet,  I  pray, 
Beside  your  manor  old ! 


BALLADE    OF    LITERARY    FAME. 

"All  these  for  Fourpence." 

OH,  where  are  the  endless  Romances 
Our  grandmothers  used  to  adore  ? 
The  Knights  with  their  helms  and  their  lances, 
Their  shields  and  the  favours  they  wore  ? 
And  the  Monks  with  their  magical  lore  ? 
They  have  passed  to  Oblivion  and  Nox, 
They  have  fled  to  the  shadowy  shore, — 
They  are  all  in  the  Fourpenny  Box  ! 

And  where  the  poetical  fancies 
Our  fathers  were  fond  of,  of  yore  ? 
The  lyric's  melodious  expanses. 
The  Epics  in  cantos  a  score  ? 
They  have  been  and  are  not:  no  more 
Shall  the  shepherds  drive  silvery  flocks, 
Nor  the  ladies  their  long  words  deplore, — 
They  are  all  in  the  Fourpenny  Box ! 
5 


^/iLLADES. 

And  the  Music  !    The  songs  and  the  dances  ? 

The  tunes  that  Time  may  not  restore  ? 

And  the  tomes  where  Divinity  prances? 

And  the  pamphlets  where  Heretics  roar  ? 

They  have  ceased  to  be  even  a  bore, — 

The  Divine,  and  the  Sceptic  who  mocks, — 

They    are    "cropped,"    they  are    "foxed"    to   the 

core, — 
They  are  all  in  the  Fourpenny  Box  ! 


Suns  beat  on  them ;  tempests  downpour, 
On  the  chest  without  cover  or  locks, 
Where  they  lie  by  the  Bookseller's  door,- 
They  are  all  in  the  Fourpenny  Box ! 


BALLADE    OF    BLUE   CHINA. 

THERE  'S  a  joy  without  canker  or  cark, 
There  's  a  pleasure  eternally  new, 
'T  is  to  gloat  on  the  glaze  and  the  mark 
Of  china  that  's  ancient  and  blue ; 
Unchipp'd,  all  the  centuries  through 
It  has  pass'd,  since  the  chime  of  it  rang, 
And  they  fashion'd  it,   figure  and  hue. 
In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Hwang. 

These  dragons  (their  tails,  you  remark. 
Into  bunches  of  gillyflowers  grew), — 
When  Noah  came  out  of  the  ark, 
Did  these  lie  in  wait  for  his  crew  ? 
They  snorted,  they  snapp'd,  and  they  slew, 
They  were  mighty  of  fin  and  of  fang, 
And  their  portraits  Celestials  drew 
In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Hwang. 

7 


'BALLADES. 

Here  's  a  pot  with  a  cot  in  a  park, 

In  a  park  where  the  peach-blossoms  blew, 

Where  the  lovers  eloped  in  the  dark. 

Lived,  died,  and  were  changed  into  two 

Bright  birds  that  eternally  flew 

Through  the  boughs  of  the  may,  as  they  sang; 

'T  is  a  tale  was  undoubtedly  true 

In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Hwang. 


Come,  snarl  at  my  ecstasies,  do, 
Kind  critic;   your  "tongue  has  a  tang," 
But — a  sage  never  heeded  a  shrew 
In  the  reign  of  the  Emperor  Hwang. 


BALLADE    OF    THE    BOOK-HUNTER. 

IN  torrid  heats  of  late  July, 
In  March,  beneath  the  bitter  bise, 
He  book-hunts  while  the  loungers  fly, — 
He  book-hunts,  though  December  freeze  ; 
In  breeches  baggy  at  the  knees, 
And  heedless  of  the  public  jeers. 
For  these,  for  these,  he  hoards  his  fees, — 
Aldines,  Bodonis,   Elzevirs. 

No  dismal  stall  escapes  his  eye. 

He  turns  o'er  tomes  of  low  degrees, 

There  soiled  romanticists  may  lie. 

Or  Restoration  comedies ; 

Each  tract  that  flutters  in  the  breeze 

For  him  is  charged  with  hopes  and  fears, 

In  mouldy  novels  fancy  sees 

Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs. 

9 


"BALLADES. 

With  restless  eyes  that  peer  and  spy, 

Sad  eyes  that  heed  not  skies  nor  trees, 

In  dismal  nooks  he  loves  to  pry, 

Whose  motto  ever  more  is  Spes  / 

But  ah  !  the  fabled  treasure  flees ; 

Grown  rarer  with  the  fleeting  years, 

In  rich  men's  shelves  they  take  their  ease, — 

Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs ! 

ENVOY. 

Prince,  all  the  things  that  tease  and  please, — 
Fame,  hope,  wealth,  kisses,  cheers,  and  tears. 
What  are  they  but  such  toys  as  these — - 
Aldines,  Bodonis,  Elzevirs? 


BALLADE  TO  THEOCRITUS,  IN  WINTER. 

€<ropu}v  Tat'  ^LK€\atf  e9  aAa- 

Id.  viii.  56. 

AH  !  leave  the  smoke,  the  wealth,  the  roar 
Of  London,  leave  the  bustling  street, 
For  still,  by  the  Sicilian  shore. 
The  murmur  of  the  Muse  is  sweet. 
Still,  still,   the  suns  of  summer  greet 
The  mountain-grave  of  Helike, 
And  shepherds  still  their  songs  repeat 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea.  * 

What  though  they  worship  Pan  no  more, 
That  guarded  once  the  shepherd's  seat, 
They  chatter  of  their  rustic  lore. 
They  watch  the  wind  among  the  wheat : 
Cicalas  chirp,  the  young  lambs  bleat, 
Where  whispers  pine  to  cypress  tree  ; 
They  count  the  waves  that  idly  beat 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea. 


'BALLADES. 

Theocritus  !  thou  canst  restore 
The  pleasant  years,  and  over-fleet; 
With  thee  we  live  as  men  of  yore, 
We  rest  w^here  running  waters  meet : 
And  then  we  turn  unwilling  feet 
And  seek  the  world — so  must  it  be  — 
We  may  not  linger  in  the  heat 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea ! 

ENVOY. 

Master, — when  rain,  and  snow,  and  sleet 
And  northern  winds  are  wild,  to  thee 
We  come,  we  rest  in  thy  retreat, 
Where  breaks  the  blue  Sicilian  sea ! 


VALENTINE    IN    FORM    OF    BALLADE. 

THE  soft  wind  from  the  south  land  sped, 
He  set  his  strength  to  blow, 
From  forests  where  Adonis  bled, 
And  lily  flowers  a-row : 

He  crossed  the  straits  like  streams  that  flow, 
The  ocean  dark  as  wine, 
To  my  true  love  to  whisper  low, 
To  be  your  Valentine. 

The  Spring  half-raised  her  drowsy  head. 
Besprent  with  drifted  snow, 
"  I  '11  send  an  April  day,"  she  said, 
"  To  lands  of  wintry  woe." 
He  came, —  the  winter's  overthrow, — 
With  showers  that  sing  and  shine. 
Pied  daisies  round  your  path  to  strew, 
To  be  your  Valentine. 
13 


BALLADES. 

Where  sands  of  Egypt,  swart  and  red, 

'Neath  suns  Egyptian  glow, 

In  places  of  the  princely  dead. 

By  the  Nile's  overflow, 

The  swallow  preened  her  wings  to  go. 

And  for  the  North  did  pine. 

And  fain  would  brave  the  frost,  her  foe, 

To  be  your  Valentine. 

ENVOY. 

Spring,   Swallow,  South  Wind,  even  so, 
Their  various  voice  combine ; 
But  that  they  crave  on  fne  bestow. 
To  be  your  Valentine. 


BALLADE    OF    SUMMER. 

TO    C.    H.    A. 

WHEN  strawberry  pottles  are  common  and  cheap, 
Ere  elms  be  black,  or  limes  be  sere, 
When  midnight  dances  are  murdering  sleep, 
Then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year  ! 
And  far  from  Fleet  street,  far  from  here, 
The  Summer  is  Queen  in  the  length  of  the  land, 
And  moonlit  nights  they  are  soft  and  clear. 
When  fans  for  a  penny  are  sold  in  the  Strand ! 

When  clamour  that  doves  in  the  lindens  keep 
Mingles  with  musical  plash  of  the  weir, 
Where  drowned  green  tresses  of  crowsfoot  creep, 
Then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year  ! 
And  better  a  crust  and  a  beaker  of  beer, 
With  rose-hung  hedges  on  either  hand, 
Than  a  palace  in  town  and  a  prince's  cheer. 
When  fans  for  a  penny  are  sold  in  the  Strand  ! 
15 


'BALLADES. 

When  big  trout  late  in  the  twilight  leap, 
When  cuckoo  clamoureth  far  and  near, 
When  glittering  scythes,  in  the  hay  field  reap, 
Then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year  ! 
And  it  's  oh  to  sail,  with  the  wind  to  steer. 
While  kine  knee  deep  in  the  water  stand. 
On  a  Highland  loch,  on  a  Lowland  mere, 
When  fans  for  a  penny  are  sold  in  the  Strand ! 

ENVOY. 


Friend,  with  the  fops,  while  we  dawdle  here, 
Then  comes  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year  ! 
And  the  Summer  runs  out,  like  grains  of  sand. 
When  fans  for  a  penny  are  sold  in  the  Strand ! 


BALLADE   OF   AUTUMN. 

WE  built  a  castle  in  the  air, 
In  summer  weather,   you  and  I, 
The  wind  and  sun  were  in  your  hair,— 
Gold  hair  against  a  sapphire  sky : 
When  Autumn  came,  with  leaves  that  fly 
Before  the  storm,  across  the  plain, 
You  fled  from  me,  with  scarce  a  sigh  — 
My  Love  returns  no  more  again  ! 

The  windy  lights  of  Autumn  flare: 
I  watch  the  moonlit  sails  go  by  ; 
I  marvel  how  men  toil  and  fare, 
The  weary  business  that  they  ply! 
Their  voyaging  is  vanity, 
And  fairy  gold  is  all  their  gain, 
And  all  the  winds  of  winter  cry, 
"My  Love  returns  no  more  again!" 
17 


'By^LLADES. 

Here,  in  my  castle  of  Despair, 

I  sit  alone  with  memory ; 

The  wind-fed  wolf  has  left  his  lair. 

To  keep  the  outcast  company. 

The  brooding  owl  he  hoots  hard  by, 

The  hare  shall  kindle  07i  thy  Jiearth-stane, 

The  Rhymer's  soothest  prophecy, — * 

My  Love  returns  no  more  again  ! 


Lady,  my  home  until  I  die 

Is  here,  where  youth  and  hope  were  slain 

They  flit,  the  ghosts  of  our  July, 

My  Love  returns  no  more  again  ! 

*  Thomas  of  Ercildoune. 


BALLADE    OF    OLD    PLAYS. 

TO    BRANDER    MATTHEWS. 

(Les  CEnvres  de  Monsieitr  Moliere.    A  Paris, 
chez  Louys  Billaine,  a  la  Palme. 

4.D.C.LXVI.) 
LA     COUR. 

WHEN  these  Old  Plays  were  new,  the  King, 
Beside  the  Cardinal's  chair, 
Applauded,  'mid  the  courtly  ring, 
The  verses  of  Moliere ; 
Point-lace  was  then  the  only  wear, 
Old  Corneille  came  to  woo, 
And  bright  Du  Pare  was  young  and  fair, 
When  these  Old  Plays  were  new ! 
19 


"BALLADES. 


LA    COMEDIE. 


How  shrill  the  butcher's  cat-calls  ring, 

How  loud  the  lackeys  swear ! 

Black  pipe-bowls  on  the  stage  they  fling, 

At  Brecourt,  fuming  there  ! 

The  Porter  's  stabbed  !  a  Mousquetaire 

Breaks  in  with  noisy  crew  — 

'T  was  all  a  commonplace  affair 

When  these  Old  Plays  were  new  ! 

LA    VILLE. 

When  these  Old  Plays  were  new  !    They  bring 

A  host  of  phantoms  rare  : 

Old  jests  that  float,  old  jibes  that  sting, 

Old  faces  peaked  with  care : 

Menage's  smirk,  de  Vise's  stare, 

The  thefts  of  Jean  Ribou, — * 

Ah,  publishers  were  hard  to  bear 

When  these  Old  Plays  were  new. 

ENVOY. 

Ghosts,  at  your  Poet's  word  ye  dare 
To  break  Death's  dungeons  tlirouyh, 
And  frisk,  as  in  that  golden  air. 
When  these  Old  Plays  were  new ! 

*  A  knavish  publisher. 


BALLADE    OF    ROULETTE. 

TO   R.    R. 

THIS  life  —  one  was  thinking  to-day, 
In  the  midst  of  a  medley  of  fancies  — 
Is  a  game,  and  the  board  where  we  play 
Green  earth  with  her  poppies  and  pansies. 
Let  manque  be  faded  romances, 
Be  passe  remorse  and  regret ; 
Hearts  dance  with  the  wheel  as  it  dances  — 
The  wheel  of  Dame  Fortune's  roulette. 

The  lover  will  stake  as  he  may 

His  heart  on  his  Peggies  and  Nancies ; 

The  girl  has  her  beauty  to  lay ; 

The  saint  has  his  prayers  and  his  trances ; 

The  poet  bets  endless  expanses 

In  Dreamland ;   the  scamp  has  his  debt : 

How  they  gaze  at  the  wheel  as  it  glances  — 

The  wheel  of  Dame  Fortune's  roulette ! 


BALLADES. 

The  Kaiser  will  stake  his  array 

Of  sabres,  of  Krupps,  and  of  lances ; 

An  Englishman  punts  with  his  pay, 

And  glory  the  Jelon  of  France  is ; 

Your  artists,  or  Whistlers  or  Vances, 

Have  voices  or  colours  to  bet ; 

Will  you  moan  that  its  motion  askance  is- 

The  wheel  of  Dame  Fortune's  roulette  ? 


The  prize  that  the  pleasure  enhances? 
The  prize  is  —  at  last  to  forget 
The  changes,  the  chops,  and  the  chances - 
The  wheel  of  Dame  Fortune's  roulette. 


BALLADE   OF   FRERE   LUBIN. 

(Clement  Marot's  Frere  Lubin,  though  translated  by  Longfellow  and  others, 
has  not  hitherto  been  rendered  into  the  original  measure,  of  ballade  a  double 
re/rain,  j 

SOME  ten  or  twenty  times  a  day, 
To  bustle  to  the  town  with  speed, 
To  dabble  in  what  dirt  he  may, — 
Le  Frere  Lubin  's  the  man  you  need ! 
But  any  sober  life  to  lead 
Upon  an  exemplary  plan, 
Requires  a  Christian  indeed, — 
Le  Frere  Lubin  is  7iot  the  man  ! 

Another's   "  pile  "  on  his  to  lay. 
With  all  the  craft  of  guile  and  greed. 
To  leave  you  bare  of  pence  or  pay, — 
Le  Frere  Lubin  's  the  man  you  need  ! 
But  watch  him  with  the  closest  heed, 
And  dun  him  with  what  force  you  can, — 
He  '11  not  refund,  howe'er  you  plead, — 
Le  Frere  Lubin  is  not  the  man  ! 
23 


"BAL  LADES. 

An  honest  girl  to  lead  astray, 

With  subtle  saw  and  promised  mead, 

Requires  no  cunning  crone  and  grey, — 

Le  Frere  Lubin  's  the  man  you  need  ! 

He  preaches  an  ascetic  creed. 

But, —  try  him  with  the  water  can  — 

A  dog  will  drink,  whate'er  his  breed, — 

Le  Frere  Lubin  is  noi  the  man  ! 

ENVOY. 

In  good  to  fail,  in  ill  succeed, 
Le  Frere  Lubin  's  the  man  you  need  ! 
In  honest  works  to  lead  the  van, 
Le  Frere  Lubin  is  7ioi  the  man  ! 


BALLADE   OF   O-UEEN  ANNE. 

THE  modish  Airs, 
The  Tansey  Brew, 
The  Swains  and  Fairs 
In  curtained  Pew ; 
Nymphs  Knei.ler  drew, 
Books  Bentley  read, — 
Who  knows  them,  who  ? 
Queen  Anne  is  dead ! 

'  We  buy  her  Chairs, 
Her  China  blue, 
Her  red-brick  Squares 
We  build  anew ; 
But  ah  !    we  rue, 
When  all  is  said. 
The  tale  o'er-true, 
OUEEN  Anne  is  dead  ! 


"BAL  LADES. 

Now  Bulls  and  Bears, 
A  ruffling  Crew, 
With  Stocks  and  Shares, 
With  Turk  and  Jew, 
Go  bubbUng  through 
The  Town  ill-bred : 
The  World  's  askew, 
Queen  Anne  is  dead ! 

ENVOY. 

Friend,  praise  the  new ; 
The  old  is  fled : 
Vivat  Frou-Frou  ! 
Queen  Anne  is  dead ! 


36 


BALLADE    OF    PRIMITIVE    MAN. 

TO   J.    A.    FARRER. 

HE  lived  in  a  cave  by  the  seas, 
He  lived  upon  oysters  and  foes, 
But  his  list  of  forbidden  degrees, 
An  extensive  morality  shows ; 
Geological  evidence  goes 
To  prove  he  had  never  a  pan, 
But  he  shaved  with  a  shell  when  he  chose, — 
'T  was  the  manner  of  Primitive  Man. 

He  worshipp'd  the  rain  and  the  breeze, 
He  worshipp'd  the  river  that  flows, 
And  the  Dawn,  and  the  Moon,  and  the  trees, 
And  bogies,  and  serpents,  and  crows ; 
He  buried  his  dead  with  their  toes 
Tucked-up,  an  original  plan, 
Till  their  knees  came  right  under  their  nose,  — 
'T  was  the  manner  of  Primitive  Man. 
27 


"BALLADES. 

His  communal  wives,  at  his  ease, 
He  would  curb  with  occasional  blows  ; 
Or  his  State  had  a  queen,  like  the  bees 
(As  another  philosopher  trows)  : 
When  he  spoke,  it  was  never  in  prose, 
But  he  sang  in  a  strain  that  would  scan, 
For  (to  doubt  it,  perchance,  were  morose) 
'T  was  the  manner  of  Primitive  Man  ! 


Max,   proudly  your  Aryans  pose, 
But  their  rigs  they  undoubtedly  ran, 
For,  as  every  Darwinian  knows, 
'T  was  the  manner  of  Primitive  Man  ! 


BALLADE    OF    SLEEP. 

"  Of  all  Gods,  Sleep  is  dearest  to  the  Muses." — Pausanias. 

THE  hours  are  passing  slow, 
I  hear  their  weary  tread 
Clang  from  the  tower,  and  go 
Back  to  their  kinsfolk  dead. 
Sleep  !  death's  twin  brother  dread ! 
Why  dost  thou  scorn  me  so  ? 
The  wind's  voice  overhead 
Long  wakeful  here  I  know. 
And  music  from  the  steep 
Where  waters  fall  and  flow. 
Wilt  thou  not  hear  me,  Sleep  ? 

All  sounds  that  might  bestow 
Rest  on  the  fever'd  bed, 
All  slumb'rous  sounds  and  low 
Are  mingled  here  and  wed. 
And  bring  no  drowsihed. 
29 


'BALLADES. 

Shy  dreams  flit  to  and  fro 
With  shadowy  hair  dispread ; 
With  wistful  eyes  that  glow, 
And  silent  robes  that  sweep. 
Thou  wilt  not  hear  me ;  no  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  hear  me,   Sleep  ? 

What  cause  hast  thou  to  show 
Of  sacrifice  unsped? 
Of  all  thy  slaves  below 
I  most  have  laboured 
With  service  sung  and  said ; 
Have  cull'd  such  buds  as  blow, 
Soft  poppies  white  and  red. 
Where  thy  still  gardens  grow. 
And  Lethe's  waters  weep. 
Why,  then,  art  thou  my  foe  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  hear  me.   Sleep? 

ENVOY. 

Prince,  ere  the  dark  be  shred 
By  golden  shafts,  ere  low 
And  long  the  shadows  creep : 
Lord  of  the  wand  of  lead. 
Soft-footed  as  the  snow. 
Wilt  thou  not  hear  me.   Sleep? 

3° 


BALLADE  OF  CLEOPATRA'S  NEEDLE. 

YE  giant  shades  of  Ra  and  TUM, 
Ye  ghosts  of  gods  Egyptian, 
If  murmurs  of  our  planet  come 
To  exiles  in  the  precincts  wan 
Where,  fetish  or  Olympian, 
To  help  or  harm  no  more  ye  list. 
Look  down,  if  look  ye  may,  and  scan 
This  monument  in  London  mist ! 

Behold,   the  hieroglyphs  are  dumb 
That  once  were  read  of  him  that  ran 
When  seistron,  cymbal,  trump,  and  drum 
Wild  music  of  the  Bull  began  ; 
When  through  the  chanting  priestly  clan 
Walk'd  Ramses,   and  the  high  sun  kiss'd 
This  stone,  with  blessing  scored  and  ban  — 
This  monument  in  London  mist. 
31 


^ylLL^DES. 

The  stone  endures  though  gods  be  numb; 
Though  human  effort,  plot,  and  plan 
Be  sifted,  drifted,  like  the  sum 
Of  sands  in  wastes  Arabian. 
What  king  may  deem  him  more  than  man, 
What  priest  says  Faith  can  Time  resist 
While  this  endures  to  mark  their  span  — 
This  monument  in  London  mist  ? 

ENVOY. 

Prince,  the  stone's  shade  on  your  divan 
Falls ;    it  is  longer  than  ye  wist : 
It  preaches,  as  Time's  gnomon  can, 
This  monument  in  London  mist ! 


BALLADE   OF   TRUE    WISDOM. 

WHILE  others  are  asking  for  beauty  or  fame, 
Or  praying  to  know  that   for  which  they  should 
pray, 
Or  courting  Queen  Venus,  that  affable  dame, 
Or  chasing  the  Muses  the  weary  and  grey. 
The  sage  has  found  out  a  more  excellent  way — 
To  Pan  and  to  Pallas  his  incense  he  showers, 
And  his  humble  petition  puts  up  day  by  day, 
For  a  house  full  of  books,  and  a  garden  of  flowers. 

Inventors  may  bow  to  the  God  that  is  lame, 
And  crave  from  the  fire  on  his  stithy  a  ray ; 
Philosophers  kneel  to  the  God  without  name. 
Like  the  people  of  Athens,  agnostics  are  they  ; 
The  hunter  a  fawn  to  Diana  will  slay. 
The  maiden  wild  roses  will  wreathe  for  the  Hours  ; 
But  the  wise  man  will  ask,  ere  libation  he  pay. 
For  a  house  full  of  books,  and  a  garden  of  flowers. 

33 


BALLy^DES. 

Oh  !  grant  me  a  life  without  pleasure  or  blame 
(As  mortals  count  pleasure  who  rush  through  their  day 
With  a  speed  to  which  that  of  the  tempest  is  tame)  ! 
O  grant  me  a  house  by  the  beach  of  a  bay, 
Where  the  waves  can  be  surly  in  winter,  and  play 
With  the  sea-weed  in  summer,  ye  bountiful  powers  ! 
And  I  'd  leave  all  the  hurry,  the  noise,  and  the  fray, 
For  a  house  full  of  books,  and  a  garden  of  flowers. 

ENVOY. 

Gods,  grant  or  withhold  it;   your  "yea"  and  your  "nay" 

Are  immutable,  heedless  of  outcry  of  ours  : 

But  life  is  worth  living,  and  here  we  would  stay 

For  a  house  full  of  books,  and  a  garden  of  flowers. 


BALLADE   OF    THE    MUSE. 

Quon  tu,  Melpomene,  se>nel. 

THE  man  whom  once,  Melpomene, 
Thou  look'st  on  with  benignant  sight, 
Shall  never  at  the  Isthmus  be 
A  boxer  eminent  in  fight, 
Nor  fares  he  foremost  in  the  flight 
Of  Grecian  cars  to  victory, 
Nor  goes  with  Delian  laurels  dight, 
The  man  thou  lov'st,   Melpomene  ! 

Not  him  the  Capitol  shall  see, 

As  who  hath  crush'd  the  threats  and  might 

Of  monarchs,  march  triumphantly  ; 

But  Fame  shall  crown  him,   in  his  right 

Of  all  the  Roman  lyre  that  smite 

The  first ;   so  woods  of  Tivoli 

Proclaim  him,  so  her  waters  bright, 

The  man  thou  lov'st,  Melpomene  ! 

35 


BALLADES, 

The  sons  of  queenly  Rome  count  me, 

Me  too,  with  them  whose  chants  deUght, — 

The  poets'  kindly  company ; 

Now  broken  is  the  tooth  of  spite, 

But  thou,  that  temperest  aright 

The  golden  lyre,  all,  all  to  thee 

He  owes  —  life,  fame,  and  fortune's  height- 

The  man  thou  lov'st,   Melpomene  ! 

ENVOY. 

Queen,  that  to  mute  lips  could'st  unite 
The  wild  swan's  dying  melody  ! 
Thy  gifts,  ah  !  how  shall  he  requite  — 
The  man  thou  lov'st,  Melpomene  ? 


36 


BALLADE    FOR   A    BABY. 

(FROM    "THE   GARLAND    OF    RACHEL.") 

'''  I  ""IS  distance  lends,  the  poet  says, 

1      Enchantment  to  the  view. 
And  this  makes  possible  the  praise 
Which  I  bestow  on  you. 
For  babies  rosy-pink  of  hue 
I  do  not  always  care, 
But  distance  paints  the  mountains  blue, 
And  Rachel  always  fair. 

Ah  Time,  speed  on  her  flying  days, 
Bring  back  my  youth  that  flew. 
That  she  may  listen  to  my  lays 
Where  Merton  stock-doves  coo ; 
That  I  may  sing  afresh,  anew, 
My  songs,  now  faint  and  rare, 
Time,  make  me  always  twenty-two. 
And  Rachel  always  fair. 

37 


BALLADES. 

Nay,  long  ago,  down  dusky  ways 

Fled  Cupid  and  his  crew  ; 

Life  brings  not  back  the  morning  haze, 

The  dawning  and  the  dew  ; 

And  other  lips  must  sigh  and  sue, 

And  younger  lovers  dare 

To  hint  that  Love  is  always  true, 

And  Rachel  always  fair. 

ENVOY. 

Princess,  let  Age  bid  Youth  adieu. 
Adieu  to  this  despair, 
To  me,  who  thus  despairing  woo. 
And  Rachel  always  fair. 


BALLADE    OF    HIS    OWN    COUNTRY. 


I  scribbled  on  a  fly-book's  leaves 

Among  the  shining  salmon-flies  ; 
A  song  for  summer-time  that  grieves 

I  scribbled  on  a  fly-book's  leaves. 

Between  grey  sea  and  golden  sheaves. 
Beneath  the  soft  wet  Morvern  skies, 
I  scribbled  on  a  fly-book's  leaves 

Among  the  shining  salmon-flies. 


TO   C.   H.   ARKCOLL. 

LET  them  boast  of  Arabia,  oppressed 
By  the  odour  of  myrrh  on  the  breeze ; 
In  the  isles  of  the  East  and  the  West 

That  are  sweet  with  the  cinnamon  trees 
Let  the  sandal-wood  perfume  the  seas  ; 

Give  the  roses  to  Rhodes  and  to  Crete, 

We  are  more  than  content,  if  you  please, 

With  the  smell  of  bog-myrtle  and  peat ! 

39 


BALL/IDES. 

Though  Dan  Virgil  enjoyed  himself  best 

With  the  scent  of  the  limes,  when  the  bees 
Hummed  low  'round  the  doves  in  their  nest, 

While  the  vintagers  lay  at  their  ease, 
Had  he  sung  in  our  northern  degrees, 

He  'd  have  sought  a  securer  retreat. 
He  'd  have  dwelt,  where  the  heart  of  us  flees, 

With  the  smell  of  bog-myrtle  and  peat ! 

Oh,  the  broom  has  a  chivalrous  crest 

And  the  daffodil  's  fair  on  the  leas. 
And  the  soul  of  the  Southron  might  rest, 

And  be  perfectly  happy  with  these ; 
But  we,  that  were  nursed  on  the  knees 

Of  the  hills  of  the  North,  we  would  fleet 
Where  our  hearts  might  their  longing  appease 

With  the  smell  of  bog-myrtle  and  peat ! 


Princess,  the  domain  of  our  quest 

It  is  far  from  the  sounds  of  the  street. 

Where  the  Kingdom  of  Galloway  's  blest 
With  the  smell  of  bog-myrtle  and  peat ! 


BALLADE    OF    THE    TWEED. 

(lowland  scotch.) 
to  t.  w.  lang. 

THE  ferox  rins  in  rough  Loch  Awe, 
A  weary  cry  frae  ony  toun ; 
The  Spey,  that  loups  o'er  hnn  and  fa', 
They  praise  a'  ither  streams  aboon  ; 
They  boast  their  braes  o'  bonny  Doon ; 
Gie  vie  to  hear  the  ringing  reel, 
Where  shilfas  sing,  and  cushats  croon 
By  fair  Tweed-side,  at  Ashiesteel ! 

There  's  Ettrick,  Meggat,  Ail,  and  a'. 
Where  trout  swim  thick  in  May  and  June : 
Ye  '11  see  them  take  in  showers  o'  snaw 
Some  blinking,   cauldrife  April  noon  : 
Rax  ower  the  palmer  and  march-broun, 
And  syne  we  '11  show  a  bonny  creel. 
In  spring  or  simmer,  late  or  soon. 
By  fair  Tweed-side,  at  Ashiesteel  ! 


BALLy4DES. 

There  's  mony  a  water,  great  or  sma', 

Gaes  singing  in  his  siller  tune, 

Through  glen  and  heugh,  and  hope  and  shaw, 

Beneath  the  sun-licht  or  the  moon  : 

But  set  us  in  our  fishing- shoon 

Between  the  Caddon-burn  and  Peel, 

And  syne  we  '11  cross  the  heather  broun 

By  fair  Tweed-side  at  Ashiesteel ! 

ENVOY. 

Deil  take  the  dirty,  trading  loon 
Wad  gar  the  water  ca'  his  wheel, 
And  drift  his  dyes  and  poisons  doun 
By  fair  Tweed-side  at  Ashiesteel ! 


BALLADE    OF    THE    ROYAL    GAME 
OF    GOLF. 

TO    LESLIE    BALFOUR. 

(East  Fifeshire.) 

THERE  are  laddies  will  drive  ye  a  ba' 
To  the  burn  frae  the  farthermost  tee, 
But  ye  mauna  think  driving  is  a', 
Ye  may  heel  her,  and  send  her  ajee. 
Ye  may  land  in  the  sand  or  the  sea  ; 
And  ye  're  dune,  sir,  ye  're  no  worth  a  preen, 
Tak'  the  word  that  an  auld  man  '11  gie, 
Tak'  aye  tent  to  be  up  on  the  green  ! 

The  auld  folk  are  crouse,  and  they  craw 
That  their  putting  is  pawky  and  slee ; 
In  a  bunker  they  're  nae  gude  ava'. 
But  to  girn,  and  to  gar  the  sand  flee. 

43 


BALLADES. 

And  a  lassie  can  putt  —  ony  she, — 
Be  she  Maggy,  or  Bessie,  or  Jean, 
But  a  cleek-shot  's  the  billy  for  me, 
Tak'  aye  tent  to  be  up  on  the  green  ! 

I  hae  play'd  in  the  frost  and  the  thaw, 
I  hae  play'd  since  the  year  thirty-three, 
I  hae  play'd  in  the  rain  and  the  snaw, 
And  I  trust  I  may  play  till  I  dee ; 
And  I  tell  ye  the  truth  and  nae  lee. 
For  I  speak  o'  the  thing  I  hae  seen  — 
Tom  Morris,  I  ken,  will  agree  — 
Tak'  aye  tent  to  be  up  on  the  green  ! 

ENVOY. 

Prince,  faith  you  're  improving  a  wee, 
And,  Lord,  man,  they  tell  me  you  're  keen ; 
Tak'  the  best  o'  advice  that  can  be, 
Tak'  aye  tent  to  be  up  on  the  green  ! 


44 


BALLADE    OF   THE   MIDNIGHT   FOREST. 

AFTER     THEODORE     DE     BANVILLE. 

STILL  sing  the  mocking  fairies,  as  of  old, 
Beneath  the  shade  of  thorn  and  holly-tree ; 
The  west  wind  breathes  upon  them,  pure  and  cold, 
And  wolves  still  dread  Diana  roaming  free 
In  secret  woodland  with  her  company. 
'T  is  thought  the  peasants'  hovels  know  her  rite 
When  now  the  wolds  are  bathed  in  silver  light, 
And  first  the  moonrise  breaks  the  dusky  grey. 
Then  down  the  dells,  with  blown  soft  hair  and  bright, 
And  through  the  dim  wood  Dian  threads  her  way. 

With  water-weeds  twined  in  their  locks  of  gold, 
The  strange  cold  forest-fairies  dance  in  glee ; 
Sylphs  over-timorous  and  over-bold 
Haunt  the  dark  hollows  where  the  dwarf  may  be. 
The  wild  red  dwarf,  the  nixies'  enemy ; 

45 


BALL/IDES. 

Then  'mid  their  mirth,  and  laughter,  and  affright, 
The  sudden  Goddess  enters,  tall  and  white, 
With  one  long  sigh  for  summers  pass'd  away ; 
The  swift  feet  tear  the  ivy  nets  outright, 
And  through  the  dim  wood  Dian  threads  her  way. 

She  gleans  her  silvan  trophies ;   down  the  wold 

She  hears  the  sobbing  of  the  stags  that  flee 

Mixed  with  the  music  of  the  hunting  roll'd, 

But  her  delight  is  all  in  archery. 

And  naught  of  ruth  and  pity  wotteth  she 

More  than  her  hounds  that  follow  on  the  flight; 

The  Goddess  draws  a  golden  bow  of  might 

And  thick  she  rains  the  gentle  shafts  that  slay. 

She  tosses  loose  her  locks  upon  the  night, 

And  through  the  dim  wood  Dian  threads  her  way. 


Prince,  let  us  leave  the  din,  the  dust,  the  spite. 
The  gloom  and  glare  of  towns,  the  plague,  the  blight : 
Amid  the  forest  leaves  and  fountain  spray 
There  is  the  mystic  home  of  our  delight. 
And  through  the  dim  wood  Dian  threads  her  way. 


46 


BALLADE    OF    CRICKET. 

TO    T.    W.    LANG. 

THE  burden  of  hard  hitting :   slog  away ! 
Here  shalt  thou  score  a  "five"  and  there  a  "four,' 
And  then  upon  thy  bat  shalt  lean,  and  say. 
That  thou  art  in  for  an  uncommon  score. 
Yea,  the  loud  ring  applauding  thee  shall  roar. 
And  thou  to  rival  THORNTON  shalt  aspire, 
When  lo,  the  Umpire  gives  thee  "leg  before," — 
"This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire!" 

The  burden  of  much  bowling,  when  the  stay 
Of  all  thy  team  is  "  collared,"  swift  or  slower. 
When   "bailers"  break  not  in  their  wonted  way. 
And  "Yorkers"  come  not  off  as  here-to-fore, 
When  length  balls  shoot  no  more,  ah  never  more. 
When  all  deliveries  lose  their  former  fire, 
When  bats  seem  broader  than  the  broad  barn-door,— 
"This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire!" 

47 


BALLADES. 

The  burden  of  long  fielding,  when  the  clay 
Clings  to  thy  shoon  in  sudden  shower's  downpour, 
And  running  still  thou  stumblest,  or  the  ray 
Of  blazing  suns  doth  bite  and  burn  thee  sore, 
And  blind  thee  till,  forgetful  of  thy  lore. 
Thou  dost  most  mournfully  misjudge  a  "skyer," 
And  lose  a  match  the  Fates  cannot  restore, — 
"  This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire  !" 

ENVOY. 

Alas,  yet  liefer  on  Life's  hither  shore 
Would  I  be  some  poor  Player  on  scant  hire. 
Than  King  among  the  old,  who  play  no  more, — 
"  This  is  the  end  of  every  man's  desire!" 


48 


BALLADE    OF    THE    BOOK-MAN'S 
PARADISE. 

THERE  is  a  Heaven,  or  here,  or  there, 
A  Heaven  there  is,  for  me  and  you, 
Where  bargains  meet  for  purses  spare. 
Like  ours,  are  not  so  far  and  few. 
Thuanus'  bees  go  humming  through 
The  learned  groves,  'neath  rainless  skies, 
O'er  volumes  old  and  volumes  new. 
Within  that  Book-man's  Paradise  ! 

There  treasures  bound  for  Longepierre 
Keep  brilliant  their  morocco  blue. 
There  Hookes'  Amanda  is  not  rare, 
Nor  early  tracts  upon  Peru  ! 
Racine  is  common  as  Rotrou, 
No  Shakespeare  Quarto  search  defies, 
And  Caxtons  grow  as  blossoms  grew, 
Within  that  Book-man's  Paradise ! 

49 


BALLADES. 

There's  Eve, —  not  our  first  mother  fair,- 
But  Clovis  Eve,  a  binder  true ; 
Thither  does  Bauzonnet  repair, 
Derome,  Le  Gascon,  Padeloup  ! 
But  never  come  the  cropping  crew 
Tliat  dock  a  volume's  honest  size. 
Nor  they  that  "letter"  backs  askew, 
Within  that  Book-man's  Paradise  ! 


ENVOY. 

Friend,  do  not  Heber  and  De  Thou, 
And  Scott,  and  Southey,  kind  and  wise. 
La  chasse  au  bonquhi  still  pursue 
Within  that  Book-man's  Paradise  ? 


BALLADE    OF    WORLDLY    WEALTH 

(old    FRENCH.) 

MONEY  taketh  town  and  wall, 
Fort  and  ramp  without  a  blow; 
Money  moves  the  merchants  all, 
While  the  tides  shall  ebb  and  flow; 
Money  maketh  Evil  show 
Like  the  Good,  and  Truth  like  lies : 
These  alone  can  ne'er  bestow 
Youth,  and  health,  and  Paradise. 

Money  maketh  festival, 
Wine  she  buys,   and  beds  can  strow ; 
Round  the  necks  of  captains  tall, 
Money  wins  them  chains  to  throw, 
Marches  soldiers  to  and  fro, 
Gaineth  ladies  with  sweet  eyes: 
These  alone  can  ne'er  bestow 
Youth,  and  health,  and  Paradise. 
51 


BALLADES. 

Money  wins  the  priest  his  stall ; 
Money  mitres  buys,   I  trow, 
Red  hats  for  the  Cardinal, 
Abbeys  for  the  novice  low ; 
Money  maketh  sin  as  snow. 
Place  of  penitence  supplies : 
These  alone  can  ne'er  bestow 
Youth,  and  health,  and  Paradise. 


52 


BALLADE    OF    THE    MAY    TERM. 

(Being  a  Petition,  in  tJu/ornt  of  a  Ballade,  praying  tin  University 
Commissioners  to  spare  the  Summer  Term. ) 

WHEN  Lent  and  Responsions  are  ended, 
When  May  with  fritillaries  waits, 
When  the  flower  of  the  chestnut  is  splendid, 
When  drags  are  at  all  of  the  gates 
(Those  drags  the  philosopher  "slates" 
With  a  scorn  that  is  truly  sublime),* 
Life  wins  from  the  grasp  of  the  Fates 
Sweet  hours  and  the  fleetest  of  time ! 

When  wickets  are  bowl'd  and  defended, 
When  Isis  is  glad  with  "  the  Eights," 
When  music  and  sunset  are  blended, 
When  youth  and  the  summer  are  mates. 
When  Freshmen  are  heedless  of  "Greats," 
And  when  note-books  are  cover'd  with  rhyme. 
Ah,  these  are  the  hours  that  one  rates  — 
Sweet  hours  and  the  fleetest  of  time ! 

*  Cf.  "  Suggestions  for  Academic  Reorganization." 
53 


BALLADES. 

When  the  brow  of  the  Dean  is  unbended 
At  luncheons  and  mild  tete-a-tetes, 
When  the  Tutor  's  in  love,  nor  offended 
By  blunders  in  tenses  or  dates ; 
When  bouquets  are  purchased  of  Bates, 
When  the  bells  in  their  melody  chime. 
When  unheeded  the  Lecturer  prates  — 
Sweet  hours  and  the  fleetest  of  time  ! 


ENVOY. 

Reformers  of  Schools  and  of  States, 
Is  mirth  so  tremendous  a  crime  ? 
Ah  !  spare  what  grim  pedantry  hates - 
Sweet  hours  and  the  fleetest  of  time. 


54 


BALLADE   OF   DEAD   CITIES. 

TO   E.  W.  GOSSE. 

THE  dust  of  Carthage  and  the  dust 
Of  Babel  on  the  desert  wold, 
The  loves  of  Corinth,  and  the  lust, 
Orchomenos  increased  with  gold ; 
The  town  of  Jason,  over-bold, 
And  Cherson,  smitten  in  her  prime  — 
What  are  they  but  a  dream  half-told  ? 
Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time  ? 

In  towns  that  were  a  kingdom's  trust. 
In  dim  Atlantic  forests'  fold. 
The  marble  wasteth  to  a  crust, 
The  granite  crumbles  into  mould ; 
O'er  these — left  nameless  from  of  old  — 
As  over  Shinar's  brick  and  slime. 
One  vast  forgetfulness  is  roU'd  — 
Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time  ? 

55, 


B/ILLADES. 

The  lapse  of  ages,  and  the  rust, 

The  fire,  the  frost,  the  waters  cold, 

Efface  the  evil  and  the  just ; 

From  Thebes,   that  Eriphyle  sold. 

To  drown'd  Caer-Is,  whose  sweet  bells  toU'd 

Beneath  the  wave  a  dreamy  chime 

That  echo'd  from  the  mountain-hold, — 

"Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time?" 

ENVOY. 

Prince,  all  thy  towns  and  cities  must 
Decay  as  these,  till  all  their  crime, 
And  mirth,  and  wealth,  and  toil  are  thrust 
Where  are  the  cities  of  old  time. 


56 


BALLADE    OF    THE    VOYAGE    TO 
CYTHERA. 

AFTER     THEODORE     DE     BANVILLE. 

I    KNOW  Cythera  long  is  desolate ; 
I  know  the  winds  have  stripp'd  the  gardens  green. 
Alas,  my  friends  !  beneath  the  fierce  sun's  weight 
A  barren  reef  lies  where  Love's  flowers  have  been, 
Nor  ever  lover  on  that  coast  is  seen  ! 
So  be  it,  but  we  seek  a  fabled  shore, 
To  lull  our  vague  desires  with  mystic  lore, 
To  wander  where  Love's  labyrinths  beguile ; 
There  let  us  land,  there  dream  for  evermore : 
"It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  happy  isle." 

The  sea  may  be  our  sepulchre.     If  Fate, 
If  tempests  wreak  their  wrath  on  us,   serene 
We  watch  the  bolt  of  heaven,  and  scorn  the  hate 
Of  angry  gods  that  smite  us  in  their  spleen. 

57 


B/ILLADES. 

Perchance  the  jealous  mists  are  but  the  screen 
That  veils  the  fairy  coast  we  would  explore. 
Come,  though  the  sea  be  vex'd,  and  breakers  roar, 
Come,  for  the  air  of  this  old  world  is  vile. 
Haste  we,  and  toil,  and  faint  not  at  the  oar ; 
"  It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  happy  isle." 

Grey  serpents  trail  in  temples  desecrate 

Where  Cypris  smiled,  the  golden  maid,  the  queen, 

And  ruined  is  the  palace  of  our  state  ; 

But  happy  Loves  flit  round  the  mast,  and  keen 

The  shrill  wind  sings  the  silken  cords  between. 

Heroes  are  we,   with  wearied  hearts  and  sore. 

Whose  flower  is  faded  and  whose  locks  are  hoar. 

Yet  haste,  light  skiffs,   where  myrtle  thickets  smile  ; 

Love's  panthers  sleep  'mid  roses,  as  of  yore : 

"It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  happy  isle!" 

ENVOY. 

Sad  eyes  !  the  blue  sea  laughs,  as  heretofore. 
Ah,  singing  birds  your  happy  music  pour  ! 
Ah,  poets,  leave  the  sordid  earth  awhile  ; 
Flit  to  these  ancient  gods  we  still  adore  : 
"It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  happy  isle  !  " 

.58 


BALLADE    OF    LIFE. 


'  Dead  and  gone,' — a  sorry  burden  of  the  Ballad  of  Life.' 
Death's  Jest  Book. 


SAY,  fair  maids,  maying 
In  gardens  green, 
In  deep  dells  straying, 
What  end  hath  been 
Two  Mays  between  • 

Of  the  flowers  that  shone 
And  your  own  sweet  queen  — 
"They  are  dead  and  gone!" 

Say,  grave  priests,  praying 

In  dule  and  teen, 

From  cells  decaying 

What  have  ye  seen 

Of  the  proud  and  mean, 

Of  Judas  and  John, 

Of  the  foul  and  clean?  — 

"They  are  dead  and  gone!" 

59 


BALLADES. 

Say,  kings,  arraying 
Loud  wars  to  win. 
Of  your  manslaying 
What  gain  ye  glean  ? 
"They  are  fierce  and  keen, 
But  they  fall  anon. 
On  the  sword  that  lean, — 
They  are  dead  and  gone  ! " 

ENVOY. 

Through  the  mad  world's  scene, 

We  are  drifting  on. 

To  this  tune,  I  ween, 

"  They  are  dead  and  gone  !  " 


60 


BALLADE    OF   ESTHETIC   ADJECTIVES. 

THERE    be    ''subtle"   and    ''sweet,"    that    are    bad 
ones  to  beat, 
There  are   "lives  unlovely,"  and  "souls  astray"; 
There  is  much  to  be  done  yet  with  "  moody  "  and  "  meet," 
And  "ghastly,"  and  "grimly,"  and  "gaunt,"  and  "grey"; 
We  should  ever  be  "blithesome,"  but  never  be  gay, 
And  "splendid"  is  suited  to  "summer"  and  "sea"; 
"Consummate,"  they  say,  is  enjoying  its  day, — 
"Intense"  is  the  adjective  dearest  to  me! 

The  Snows  and  the  Rose  they  are  "windy  "and  "fleet," 
And  "frantic"  and  "faint"  are  Delight  and  Dismay; 
Yea,  "sanguine,"  it  seems,  as  the  juice  of  the  beet, 
Are  "the  hands  of  the  King"  in  a  general  way: 
There  be  loves  that  quicken,  and  sicken,  and  slay ; 
"Supreme"  is  the  song  of  the  Bard  of  the  free; 
But  of  adjectives  all  that  I  name  in  my  lay, 
"Intense"  is  the  adjective  dearest  to  me! 

6i 


BALLADES. 

The  Matron  intense  — let  us  sit  at  her  feet, 
And  pelt  her  with  lilies  as  long  as  we  may ; 
The  Maiden  intense  —  is  not  always  discreet; 
But  the  Singer  intense,  in  his  "singing  array," 
Will  win  all  the  world  with  his  roundelay  : 
While  "blithe"  birds  carol  from  tree  to  tree, 
And  Art  unto  Nature  doth  simper,  and  say, — 
"  '  Intense  '  is  the  adjective  dearest  to  me  !  " 


Prince,  it  is  surely  as  good  as  a  play 
To  mark  how  the  poets  and  painters  agree  ; 
But  of  plumage  aesthetic  that  feathers  the  jay, 
"Intense"  is  the  adjective  dearest  to  me! 


63 


BALLADE    OF    DEAD     LADIES. 

AFTER   VILLON. 

NAY,  tell  me  now  in  what  strange  air 
The  Roman  Flora  dwells  to-day. 
Where  Archippiada  hides,  and  where 
Beautiful  Thais  has  passed  away  ? 
Whence  answers  Echo,  afield,  astray. 
By  mere  or  stream, — around,  below? 
Lovelier  she  than  a  woman  of  clay; 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow  ? 

Where  is  wise  Heloise,  that  care 
Brought  on  Abeilard,  and  dismay? 
All  for  her  love  he  found  a  snare, 
A  maimed  poor  monk  in  orders  grey ; 
And  where  's  the  Queen  who  willed  to  slay 
Buridan,   that  in  a  sack  must  go 
Afloat  down  Seine, — a  perilous  way  — 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow? 
63 


BALLADES. 

Where  's  that  White  Oueen,  a  hly  rare, 
With  her  sweet  song,  the  Siren's  lay  ? 
Where  's  Bertha  Broad-foot,   Beatrice  fair? 
Alys  and  Ermengarde,   where  are  they? 
Good  Joan,  whom  Enghsli  did  betray 
In  Rouen  town,  and  burned  her?     No, 
Maiden  and  Queen,  no  man  may  say ; 
Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow? 

ENVOY. 

Prince,  all  this  week  thou  need'st  not  pray. 
Nor  yet  this  year  the  thing  to  know. 
One  burden  answers,  ever  and  aye, 
"  Nay,  but  where  is  the  last  year's  snow  ? " 


64 


VILLON'S    BALLADE. 

OF   GOOD    COUNSEL,    TO    HIS    FRIENDS    OF    EVIL    LIFE. 

NAY,  be  you  pardoner  or  cheat, 
Or  cogger  keen,  or  mumper  shy, 
You  '11  burn  your  fingers  at  the  feat. 
And  howl  like  other  folks  that  fry. 
All  evil  folks  that  love  a  lie  ! 
And  where  goes  gain  that  greed  amasses, 
By  wile,  and  guile,  and  thievery? 
'T  is  all  to  taverns  and  to  lasses ! 

Rhyme,   rail,  dance,   play  the  cymbals  sweet. 
With  game,   and  shame,   and  jollity. 
Go  jigging  through  the  field  and  street, 
With  mysfry  and  morality; 
Win  gold  at  glcek, — and  that  will  fly, 
Where  all  you  gain  at  passage  passes, — 
And  that  's?     You  know  as  well  as  I, 
'T  is  all  to  taverns  and  to  lasses ! 
6-; 


BALLADES. 

Nay,  forth  from  all  such  filth  retreat, 

Go  delve  and  ditch,  in  wet  or  dry. 

Turn  groom,  give  horse  and  mule  their  meat, 

If  you  've  no  clerkly  skill  to  ply ; 

You  '11  gain  enough,  with  husbandry. 

But — sow  hempseed  and  such  wild  grasses, 

And  where  goes  all  you  take  thereby?  — 

'T  is  all  to  taverns  and  to  lasses  ! 

ENVOY. 

Your  clothes,  your  hose,  your  broidery, 
Your  linen  that  the  snow  surpasses. 
Or  ere  they  're  worn,  off,  off  they  fly, 
'T  is  all  to  taverns  and  to  lasses! 


66 


BALLADE   AMOUREUSE. 

AFTER    FROISSART. 

NOT  Jason  nor  Medea  wise, 
I  crave  to  see,  nor  win  much  lore, 
Nor  list  to  Orpheus'  minstrelsies  ; 
Nor  Her'cles  would  I  see,  that  o'er 
The  wide  world  roamed  from  shore  to  shore : 
Nor,  by  St.  James,  Penelope, — 
Nor  pure  Lucrece,  such  wrong  that  bore  : 
To  see  my  Love  suffices  me  ! 

Virgil  and  Cato,  no  man  vies 
With  them  in  wealth  of  clerkly  store ; 
I  would  not  see  them  with  mine  eyes ; 
Nor  him  that  sailed,  sans  sail  nor  oar. 
Across  the  barren  sea  and  hoar, 
And  all  for  love  of  his  ladye  ; 
Nor  pearl  nor  sapphire  takes  me  more : 
To  see  my  Love  suffices  me  ! 
67 


BALLADES. 

I  heed  not  Pegasus,  that  flies 

As  swift  as  shafts  the  bowmen  pour ; 

Nor  famed  Pygmahon's  artifice, 

Whereof  the  hke  was  ne'er  before ; 

Nor  Oleus,  that  drank  of  yore 

The  salt  wave  of  the  whole  great  sea : 

Why  ?  dost  thou  ask  ?     'T  is  as  I  swore  ■ 

To  see  my  Love  suffices  me ! 


68 


BALLADE    AGAINST    THE    JESUITS. 

AFTER    LA    FONTAINE. 

ROME  does  right  well  to  censure  all  the  vain 
Talk  of  Jansenius,  and  of  them  who  preach 
That  earthly  joys  are  damnable !     'T  is  plain 
We  need  not  charge  at  Heaven  as  at  a  breach; 
No,  amble  on  !     We  11  gain  it,  one  and  all ; 
The  narrow  path  's  a  dream  fantastical. 
And  Arnauld  's  quite  superfluously  driven 
Mirth  from  the  world.     We  '11  scale  the  heavenly  wall, 
Escobar  makes  a  primrose  path  to  heaven  ! 

He  does  not  hold  a  man  may  well  be  slain 
Who  vexes  with  unseasonable  speech, 
You  may  do  murder  for  five  ducats  gain. 
Not  for  a  pin,  a  ribbon,  or  a  peach  ; 
He  ventures  (most  consistently)  to  teach 
69 


BALLADES. 

That  there  are  certain  cases  which  befall 
When  perjury  need  no  good  man  appal, 
And  life  of  love  (he  says)  may  keep  a  leaven. 
Sure,  hearing  this,  a  grateful  world  will  bawl, 
"  Escobar  makes  a  primrose  path  to  heaven  !  " 

"  For  God's  sake  read  me  somewhat  in  the  strain 
Of  his  most  cheering  volumes,   1  beseech  !  " 
Why  should  I  name  them  all?  a  mighty  train  — 
So  many,  none  may  know  the  name  of  each. 
Make  these  your  compass  to  the  heavenly  beach, 
These  only  in  your  library  instal : 
Burn  Pascal  and  his  fellows,   great  and  small, 
Dolts  that  in  vain  with  Escobar  have  striven  ; 
I  tell  you,  and  the  common  voice  doth  call, 
Escobar  makes  a  primrose  path  to  heaven  ! 

ENVOY. 

Satan,   that  pride  did  hurry  to  thy  fall. 
Thou  porter  of  the  grim  infernal  hall  — 
Thou  keeper  of  the  courts  of  souls  unshriven  ! 
To  shun  thy  shafts,   to  'scape  thy  hellish  thrall, 
Escobar  makes  a  primrose  path  to  heaven  ! 


70 


BALLADE    OF    BLIND    LOVE. 

T   1    7"  HO  have  loved  and  ceased  to  love,  forget 
V  V     That  ever  they  loved  in  their  lives,  they  say ; 
Only  remember  the  fever  and  fret, 
And  the  pain  of  Love,  that  was  all  his  pay ; 
All  the  delight  of  him  passes  away 
From  hearts  that  hoped,  and  from  lips  that  met — 
Too  late  did  I  love  you,   my  love,  and  yet 
I  shall  never  forget  till  my  dying  day. 

Too  late  were  we  'ware  of  the  secret  net 
That  meshes  the  feet  in  the  flowers  that  stray ; 
There  were  we  taken  and  snared,   Lisctte, 
In  the  dungeon  of  %a  .ffaussc  Jfmistie ; 
Help  was  there  none  in  the  wide  world's  fray, 
Joy  was  there  none  in  the  gift  and  the  debt ; 
Too  late  we  knew  it,  too  long  regret  — 
I  shall  never  forget  till  my  dying  day  ! 
71 


BALLADES. 

We  must  live  our  lives,  though  the  sun  be  set, 

Must  meet  in  the  masque  where  parts  we  play. 

Must  cross  in  the  maze  of  Life's  minuet ; 

Our  yea  is  yea,  and  our  nay  is  nay : 

But  while  snows  of  winter  or  flowers  of  May 

Are  the  sad  year's  shroud  or  coronet, 

In  the  season  of  rose  or  of  violet, 

I  shall  never  forget  till  my  dying  day  ! 

ENVOY. 

Queen,  when  the  clay  is  my  coverlet, 
When  I  am  dead,  and  when  you  are  grey. 
Vow,  where  the  grass  of  the  grave  is  wet, 
"I  shall  never  forget  till  my  dying  day!" 


BALLADE    OF    HIS    CHOICE    OF    A 
SEPULCHRE. 

HERE  I  'd  come  when  weariest ! 
Here  the  breast 
Of  the  Windburg's  *  tufted  over 
Deep  with  bracken  ;  here  his  crest 

Takes  the  west, 
Where  the  wide-winged  hawk  doth  hover. 

Silent  here  are  lark  and  plover ; 

In  the  cover 
Deep  below  the  cushat  best 
Loves  his  mate,  and  croons  above  her 

O'er  their  nest, 
Where  the  wide-winged  hawk  doth  hover. 

*  A  hill  on  the  Teviot  in  Roxburghshire. 
73 


BALLADES. 

Bring  me  here,   Life's  tired-out  guest, 

To  the  blest 
Bed  that  waits  the  weary  rover, 
Here  should  failure  be  confessed ; 

Ends  my  quest, 
Where  the  wide-winged  hawk  doth  hover ! 

ENVOY. 

Friend,  or  stranger  kind,  or  lover, 
Ah,  fulfil  a  last  behest, 

Let  me  rest 
Where  the  wide-winged  hawk  doth  hover ! 


Grace  A  la  Muse,  et  je  lui  dis  merci, 
J'Ai  compose  mes  trente  six  Ballades  ! 


DIZAIN. 

/IS,  to  the  pipe,  "with  rhythmic  feet 
^^        In  windings  of  some  old-ivorld  dance, 
The  smiling  couples  cross  and  meet, 
Join  hands,  and  then  in  line  advance. 
So,  to  these  fair  old  tunes  of  France, 
Through  all  their  maze  of  to-andfro, 
The  light-heeled  numbers  laughing  go, 
Retreat,  return,  and  ere  they  flee. 
One  moment  pause  iti  panting  row. 
And  see7n  to  say, — Vos  plaudite. 

Austin  Dobson. 


VERSES  VAIN 


ALMAE   MATRES. 

(Si.   Andrews,   1862.     Oxford,   1865.) 

^^'^Z'.  Andrews  by  the  Northern  sea, 
\^__J      A  haunted  town  it  is  to  me/ 
A  little  city,   worn  and  grey, 

The  grey  North  Ocean  girds  it  round. 
And  o'er  the  rocks,  and  up  the  bay, 

The  long  sea-rollers  surge  and  sound. 
And  still  the  thin  and  biting  spray 

Drives  down  the  melancholy  street, 
And  still  endure,  and  still  decay. 

Towers  that  the  salt  winds  vainly  beat. 
Ghost-like  and  shadowy  they  stand 
Clear  mirrored  in  the  wet  sea-sand. 

O,  ruined  chapel,  long  ago 

We  loitered  idly  where  the  tall 

Fresh  budded  mountain  ashes  blow 
Within  thy  desecrated  wall : 

79 


l^ERSES    yAIN. 

The  tough  roots  broke  the  tomb  below, 
The  April  birds  sang  clamorous, 

We  did  not  dream,  we  could  not  know 
How  soon  the  Fates  would  sunder  us ! 

O,  broken  minster,  looking  forth 

Beyond  the  bay,  above  the  town, 
O,   winter  of  the  kindly  North, 

O,  college  of  the  scarlet  gown. 
And  shining  sands  beside  the  sea. 

And  stretch  of  links  beyond  the  sand, 
Once  more  I  watch  you,  and  to  me 

It  is  as  if  I  touched  his  hand ! 

And  therefore  art  thou  yet  more  dear, 

O,  little  city,  grey  and  sere, 
Though  shrunken  from  thine  ancient  pride 

And  lonely  by  thy  lonely  sea. 
Than  these  fair  halls  on  Isis'  side. 

Where  Youth  an  hour  came  back  to  me  ! 

A  land  of  waters  green  and  clear, 

Of  willows  and  of  poplars  tall, 
And,  in  the  spring  time  of  the  year. 

The  white  may  breaking  over  all, 


VERSES    yAIN. 

And  Pleasure  quick  to  come  at  call. 

And  summer  rides  by  marsh  and  wold, 
And  Autumn  with  her  crimson  pall 

About  the  towers  of  Magdalen*    rolled ; 
And  strange  enchantments  from  the  past, 

And  memories  of  the  friends  of  old, 
And  strong  Tradition,  binding  fast 

The  "flying  terms"  with  bands  of  gold,- 

All  these  hath  Oxford  :   all  are  dear, 

But  dearer  far  the  little  town, 
The  drifting  surf,  the  wintry  year, 
The  college  of  the  scarlet  gown, 
St.  Atidreius  by  the  Northern  sea. 
That  is  a  haunted  town  to  tne  / 

*  Pronounced  "  Maudlin." 


NIGHTINGALE    WEATHER. 


'  Serai-je  nonnette,  oui  ou  non  ? 

Serai-je  nonnette  ?  je  crois  que  non. 

Derriere  chez  mon  pere 

II  est  un  bois  taillis, 

Le  rossignol  y  chante 

Et  le  jour  et  la  nuit. 

II  chante  pour  les  filles 

Qui  n'ont  pas  d'ami; 

II  ne  chante  pas  pour  moi, 

J'en  ai  un,  Dieu  merci.' — Old  French. 


I'LL  never  be  a  nun,   I  trow, 
While  apple  bloom  is  white  as  snow. 
But  far  more  fair  to  see  ; 
I  '11  never  wear  nun's  black  and  white 
While  nightingales  make  sweet  the  night 
Within  the  apple  tree. 

Ah,  listen  !  'tis  the  nightingale, 
And  in  the  wood  he  makes  his  wail, 

Within  the  apple  tree  ; 
He  singeth  of  the  sore  distress 
Of  many  ladies  loverless ; 

Thank  God,  no  song  for  me. 
82 


VERSES    VAIN. 

For  when  the  broad  May  moon  is  low, 
A  gold  fruit  seen  where  blossoms  blow 

In  the  boughs  of  the  apple  tree, 
A  step  I  know  is  at  the  gate ; 
Ah  love,  but  it  is  long  to  wait 

Until  night's  noon  bring  thee ! 

Between  lark's  song  and  nightingale's 
A  silent  space,  while  dawning  pales, 

The  birds  leave  still  and  free 
For  words  and  kisses  musical, 
For  silence  and  for  sighs  that  fall 

In  the  dawn,  'twixt  him  and  me. 


83 


COLINETTE. 

FOR    A   SKETCH   BY   MR.  G.  LESLIE,    A.R.A. 

FRANCE  your  country,  as  we  know; 
Room  enough  for  guessing  yet, 
What  Hps  now  or  long  ago, 

Kissed  and  named  you  —  Colinette. 
In  what  fields  from  sea  to  sea, 

By  what  stream  your  home  was  set, 
Loire  or  Seine  was  glad  of  thee, 
Marne  or  Rhone,  O  Colinette  ? 

Did  you  stand  with   "maidens  ten, 

Fairer  maids  were  never  seen," 
When  the  young  king  and  his  men 

Passed  among  the  orchards  green  ? 
Nay,  old  ballads  have  a  note 

Mournful,  we  would  fain  forget ; 
No  such  sad  old  air  should  float 

Round  your  young  brows,  Colinette. 


yBRSES    VAIN. 

Say,  did  Ronsard  sing  to  you, 

Shepherdess,  to  kill  his  pain, 
When  the  court  went  wandering  through 

Rose  pleasances  of  Touraine  ? 
Ronsard  and  his  famous  Rose 

Long  are  dust  the  breezes  fret ; 
You,  within  the  garden  close, 

You  are  blooming,  Colinette. 

Have  I  seen  you  proud  and  gay, 

With  a  patched  and  perfumed  beau. 
Dancing  through  the  summer  day, 

Misty  summer  of  Watteau? 
Nay,  so  sweet  a  maid  as  you 

Never  walked  a  minuet 
With  the  splendid  courtly  crew ; 

Nay,  forgive  me,  Colinette. 

Not  from  Greuze's  canvasses 

Do  you  cast  a  glance,  a  smile ; 
You  are  not  as  one  of  these. 

Yours  is  beauty  without  guile. 
Round  your  maiden  brows  and  hair 

Maidenhood  and  Childhood  met, 
Crown  and  kiss  you,  sweet  and  fair, 

New  art's  blossom,  Colinette. 
85 


FROM    THE    EAST    TO    THE    WEST. 

RETURNING  from  what  other  seas 
Dost  thou  renew  thy  murmuring, 
Weak  Tide,  and  hast  thou  aught  of  these 

To  tell,  the  shores  where  float  and  cling 
My  love,  my  hope,  my  memories  ? 

Say  does  my  lady  wake  to  note 

The  gold  light  into  silver  die? 
Or  do  thy  waves  make  lullaby, 

While  dreams  of  hers,  like  angels,  float 
Through  star-sown  spaces  of  the  sky  ? 

Ah,  would  such  angels  came  to  me 

That  dreams  of  mine  might  speak  with  hers. 
Nor  wake  the  slumber  of  the  sea 
With  words  as  low  as  winds  that  be 
Awake  among  the  gossamers  ! 


A    DREAM. 

WHY  will  you  haunt  my  sleep? 
You  know  it  may  not  be, 
The  grave  is  wide  and  deep, 
That  sunders  you  and  me ; 
In  bitter  dreams  we  reap 

The  sorrow  we  have  sown, 
And  I  would  I  were  asleep. 
Forgotten  and  alone  ! 

We  knew  and  did  not  know, 

We  saw  and  did  not  see. 
The  nets  that  long  ago 

Fate  wove  for  you  and  me ; 
The  cruel  nets  that  keep 

The  birds  that  sob  and  moan, 
And  I  would  we  were  asleep. 

Forgotten  and  alone  ! 


87 


TWILIGHT    ON    TWEED. 

THREE  crests  against  the  saffron  sky, 
Beyond  the  purple  plain, 
The  dear  remembered  melody 
Of  Tweed  once  more  again. 

Wan  water  from  the  border  hills. 
Dear  voice  from  the  old  years, 

Thy  distant  music  lulls  and  stills, 
And  moves  to  quiet  tears. 

Like  a  loved  ghost  thy  fabled  flood 
Fleets  through  the  dusky  land ; 

Where  Scott,  come  home  to  die,  has  stood, 
My  feet  returning  stand. 

A  mist  of  memory  broods  and  floats, 

The  border  waters  flow; 
The  air  is  full  of  ballad  notes. 

Borne  out  of  long  ago. 


VERSES   VAIN. 

Old  songs  that  sung  themselves  to  me, 
Sweet  through  a  boy's  day  dream, 

While  trout  below  the  blossom'd  tree 
Plashed  in  the  golden  stream. 


Twilight,  and  Tweed,  and  Eildon  Hill, 
Fair  and  thrice  fair  you  be ; 

You  tell  me  that  the  voice  is  still 
That  should  have  welcomed  me. 

1870. 


89 


i 


A    SUNSET    OF    WATTEAU. 

LUI. 

THE  silk  sail  fills,  the  soft  winds  wake, 
Arise  and  tempt  the  seas; 
Our  ocean  is  the  Palace  lake, 
Our  waves  the  ripples  that  we  make 
Among  the  mirrored  trees. 


Nay,  sweet  the  shore,  and  sweet  the  song, 

And  dear  the  languid  dream ; 
The  music  mingled  all  day  long 
With  paces  of  the  dancing  throng, 

And  murmur  of  the  stream. 

An  hour  ago,  an  hour  ago, 

We  rested  in  the  shade ; 
And  now,  why  should  we  seek  to  know 
What  way  the  wilful  waters  flow  ? 

There  is  no  fairer  glade. 

9° 


VERSES    V^IN. 


LUI. 


Nay,  pleasure  flits,  and  we  must  sail, 

And  seek  him  everywhere ; 
Perchance  in  sunset's  golden  pale 
He  listens  to  the  nightingale. 
Amid  the  perfumed  air. 

Come,   he  has  fled ;   you  are  not  you, 

And  I  no  more  am  I ; 
Delight  is  changeful  as  the  hue 
Of  heaven,  that  is  no  longer  blue 

In  yonder  sunset  sky. 


Nay,  if  we  seek  we  shall  not  find, 

If  we  knock  none  openeth ; 
Nay,  see,  the  sunset  fades  behind 
The  mountains,  and  the  cold  night  wind 

Blows  from  the  house  of  Death. 


ROMANCE. 

MY  Love  dwelt  in  a  Northern  land. 
A  grey  tower  in  a  forest  green 
Was  his,  and  far  on  either  hand 

The  long  wash  of  the  waves  was  seen, 
And  leagues  on  leagues  of  yellow  sand, 
The  woven  forest  boughs  between ! 

And  through  the  clear  faint  Northern  night 

The  sunset  slowly  died  away, 
And  herds  of  strange  deer,  silver-white, 

Stole  forth  among  the  branches  grey; 
About  the  coming  of  the  light. 

They  fled  like  ghosts  before  the  day ! 

I  know  not  if  the  forest  green 

Still  girdles  round  that  castle  grey ; 

I  know  not  if  the  boughs  between 
The  white  deer  vanish  ere  the  day; 

Above  my  Love  the  grass  is  green, 
My  heart  is  colder  than  the  clay ! 


A    SUNSET    ON    YARROW. 

THE  wind  and  the  day  had  Uved  together, 
They  died  together,  and  far  away 
Spoke  farewell  in  the  sultry  weather, 
Out  of  the  sunset,  over  the  heather, 
The  dying  wind  and  the  dying  day. 

Far  in  the  south,  the  summer  levin 
Flushed,  a  flame  in  the  grey  soft  air : 

"We  seemed  to  look  on  the  hills  of  heaven ; 

You  saw  within,  but  to  me  'twas  given 
To  see  your  face,  as  an  angel's,  there. 

Never  again,  ah  surely  never, 

Shall  we  wait  and  watch,  where  of  old  we  stood, 
The  low  good-night  of  the  hill  and  the  river, 
The  faint  light  fade,  and  the  wan  stars  quiver. 
Twain  grown  one  in  the  solitude. 


A    PORTRAIT    OF     1783. 

YOUR  hair  and  chin  are  hke  the  hair 
And  chin  Burne-Jones's  ladies  wear ; 
You  were  unfashionably  fair 

In  '83  ; 
And  sad  you  were  when  girls  are  gay, 
You  read  a  book  about  Le  vrai 
Merite  de  Vhoimne,  alone  in  May. 

What  ca)i  it  be, 
Le  vrai  merite  de  Vhoimne?     Not  gold. 
Not  titles  that  are  bought  and  sold, 
Not  wit  that  flashes  and  is  cold. 

But  Virtue  merely  ! 
Instructed  by  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau 
(And  Jean-Jacques,  surely,  ought  to  know), 
You  bade  the  crowd  of  foplings  go, 

You  glanced  severely, 

94 


VERSES   VAIN. 

Dreaming  beneath  the  spreading  shade 
Of  "  that  vast  hat  the  Graces  made  ";  * 
So  Rouget  sang  —  while  yet  he  played 

With  courtly  rhyme, 
And  hymned  great  Doisi's  red  perruque, 
And  Nice's  eyes,  and  Zulme's  look. 
And  dead  canaries,  ere  he  shook 

The  sultry  time 
With  strains  like  thunder.     Loud  and  low 
Methinks  I  hear  the  murmur  grow. 
The  tramp  of  men  that  come  and  go 

With  fire  and  sword. 
They  war  against  the  quick  and  dead, 
Their  flying  feet  are  dashed  with  red, 
As  theirs  the  vintaging  that  tread 

Before  the  Lord. 
O  head  unfashionably  fair. 
What  end  was  thine,  for  all  thy  care  ? 
We  only  see  thee  dreaming  there  : 

We  cannot  see 


*  Vous  y  verrez,  belle  Julie, 
Que  ce  chapeau  tout  raaltraite 
Fut,  dans  un  instant  de  folic, 
Par  les  Graces  meme  invente. 

'A  Julie."     JEssais  en  Prose  et  en   Vers,  par  Joseph 
Lisle;  Paris,  An.  V.  de  la  Republique. 


F ERSES    yAIN. 

The  breaking  of  thy  vision,  when 
The  Rights  of  Man  were  lords  of  men, 
When  virtue  won  her  own  again 
In  '93. 


96 


THE    BARBAROUS    BIRD-GODS: 
A    SAVAGE    PARABASIS. 


[The  myth  in  the  "  Birds"  of  Aristophanes,  which  represents  Birds  as  older 
than  the  Gods,  may  have  been  a  genuine  Greek  tradition.  The  following 
lines  show  how  prevalent  is  the  myth  among  widely  severed  races.  The 
Mexican  Bird-gods  I  omit;  who  can  rhyme  to  Huitzilopochtli?] 


Tlie  Birds  Sing  : 

WE  would   have   you  to  wit,  that  on  eggs  though 
we  sit,  and  are  spiked  on  the  spit,  and  are  baked 

in  the  pan, 
Birds  are  older  by  far  than  your  ancestors  are,  and  made 

love  and  made  war  ere  the  making  of  Man  ! 
For  when  all  things  were  dark,  not  a  glimmer  nor  spark, 

and    the  world   like  a  barque  without  rudder  or  sail 
Floated    on    through    the    night,  't  was   a   Bird   struck   a 

light,  't  was  a  flash  from  the  bright  feather'd  Tonatiu's* 

tail ! 


*  Tonatiu,  the  Thunder  Bird ;  well  known   to  the  Dacotahs  and 
Zulus. 


FERSES    l^^/N. 

Then    the  Hawk*  with    some    dry  wood   flew   up    in    the 

sky,  and  afar,  safe  and  high,   the  Hawk  ht  Sun  and 

Moon, 
And  the  Birds  of  the  air  they  rejoiced  everywhere,   and 

they  recked  not  of  care  that  should   come  on   them 

soon. 
For  the  Hawk,  so  they  tell,  was  then  known  as  Pundjel,t 

and  a-musing  he  fell  at  the  close  of  the  day ; 
Then  he  went  on  the  quest,  as  we  thought,  of  a  nest, 

with  some  bark  of  the  best,  and  a  clawful  of  clay.f 
And  with  these  did  he  frame  two  birds  lacking  a  name, 

without  feathers  (his  game  was  a  puzzle  to  all)  ; 
Next  around  them  he  fluttered  a-dancing,  and  muttered ; 

and,  lastly,  he  uttered  a  magical  call : 
Then  the    figures  of  clay,  as    they  feathcrless   lay,  they 

leaped  up,  who  but  they,  and  embracing  they  fell. 
And  //-/>  was  the  baking  of  Man,  and  his  making ;   but 

now  he  's  forsaking  his  Father,  Pundjel  ! 
Now  these  creatures  of  mire,  they  kept  whining  for  fire, 

and   to    crown    their  desire  who  was   found   but   the 

Wren  ? 


*The  Hawk,  in  tho  myth  of  the  Gnhnaineros  of  Central  Califor- 
nia, lit  up  the  Sun. 

t Pundjel,  the  Eagle  Hawk,  is  the  demiurge  and  "culture-hero" 
of  several  Australian  tribes. 

tThe  Creation  of  Man  is  thus  described  by  the  Australians. 


VERSES    y^lN. 

To    the    high    heaven    he    came,  from    the   Sun  stole  he 

flame,  and   for  this   has  a  name    in    the  memory  of 

men  !  * 
And  in  India  who  for  the  Soma  juice  flew,  and  to  men 

brought  it  through  without  falter  or  fail  ? 
Why  the    Hawk  't  was  again,  and    great    Indra   to    men 

would  appear,  now  and  then,  in  the  shape  of  a  Quail, 
While  the  Thlinkeet's  delight   is  the  Bird  of  the  Night, 

the  beak  and  the  bright  ebon  plumage  of  Yehl.f 
And  who   for  man's    need   brought   the  famed  Suttung's 

mead  ?  why  't  is  told  in   the  creed  of  the   Sagamen 

strong, 
'T  was  the  Eagle   god  who  brought   the  drink  from  the 

blue,  and  gave  mortals  the  brew  that  's  the  fountain 

of  song.t 
Next,  who    gave    men    their   laws  ?    and  what    reason    or 

cause  the  young  brave  overawes  when  in  need  of  a 

squaw, 
Till   he  thinks  it  a  shame  to  wed  one  of  his  name,  and 

his  conduct  you  blame  if  he  thus  breaks  the  law  ? 


*  In  Andaman,  Thlinkeet,  Melanesian,  and  other  myths,  a  Bird  is 
the  Prometheus  Purphoros  ;  in  Normandy  this  part  is  played  by  the 
Wren. 

t  Yehl :  the  Raven  God  of  the  Thhnkeets. 

\  Indra  stole  Soma  as  a  Hawk  and  as  a  Quail.  For  Odin's  feat 
as  a  Bird,  see  Bragi's  Telling  in  the  Younger  Edda. 

99 


VERSES   VAIN. 

For   you  still  hold   it    wrong   if  a  hcbm  *  belong  to   the 

self-same  kobong\  that  is  Father  of  you, 
To  take  her  as   a   bride   to    your  ebony  side  ;    nay,  you 

give  her  a  wide  berth  ;  quite  right  of  you,  too. 
For  her  father,  you  know,  is  your  father,  the  Crow,  and 

no  blessing  but  woe  from  the  wedding  would  spring. 
Well,   these    rules    they    were    made    in    the    wattle-gum 

shade,  and  were  strictly  obeyed,  when  the  Crow  was 

the  King.t 
Thus  on  Earth's  little  ball  to  the  Birds  you  owe  all,  yet 

your  gratitude  's  small  for  the  favours  they  've  done. 
And  their  feathers   you   pill,  and   you  eat   them  at  will, 

yes,  you   plunder  and   kill    the  bright   birds  one  by 

one  ; 
There  's  a  price  on  their  head,  and    the   Dodo  is  dead, 

and  the  Moa  has  fled  from  the  sight  of  the  sun  ! 


*Pundjel,  the  Eagle  Hawk,  gave  Australians  their  marriage  laws. 
\Lubra,   a  woman  ;    kohong,    "  totem  "  ;    or,   to  please   Mr.  Max 
Miiller,  "  otem." 
I  The  Crow  was  the  Hawks  rival. 


POST   HOMERICA 


HESPEROTHEN. 


By  the  example  of  certain  Grecian  mariners,  who,  being  safely  returned  from 
the  war  about  Troy,  leave  yet  again  their  old  lands  and  gods,  seeking  they 
know  not  what,  and  choosing  neither  to  abide  in  the  fair  Phaeacian  island, 
nor  to  dwell  and  die  with  the  Sirens,  at  length  end  miserably  in  a  desert 
country  by  the  sea,  is  set  forth  the  Vanity  of  Melancholy.  And  by  the  land 
of  Phaeacia  is  to  be  understood  the  place  of  Art  and  of  fair  Pleasures  ;  and 
by  Circe's  Isle,  the  places  of  bodily  delights,  whereof  men,  falling  aweary 
attain  to  Eld,  and  to  the  darkness  of  that  age.  Which  thing  ^Master  Fran- 
9oys  Rabelais  feigned,  under  the  similitude  of  the  Isle  of  the  Macraeones. 


THE    SEEKERS    FOR    PH/EACIA. 

THERE  is  a  land  in  the  remotest  day, 
Where  the  soft  night  is  born,   and  sunset  dies ; 
The  eastern  shores  see  faint  tides  fade  away, 

That  wash  the  lands  where  laughter,  tears,  and  sighs, 
Make  life, — the  lands  beneath  the  blue  of  common  skies. 
103 


POST  HOMERICA. 

But  in  the  west  is  a  mysterious  sea, 

(What  sails  have  seen  it,  or  what  shipmen  known  ?) 
With  coasts  enchanted  where  the  Sirens  be, 
With  islands  where  a  Goddess  walks  alone, 
And  in  the  cedar  trees  the  magic  winds  make  moan. 


Eastward  the  human  cares  of  house  and  home, 
Cities,  and  ships,  and  unknown  Gods,  and  loves; 

Westward,  strange  maidens  fairer  than  the  foam, 
And  lawless  lives  of  men,  and  haunted  groves. 
Wherein  a  God  may  dwell,  and  where  the  Dryad  roves. 


The  Gods  are  careless  of  the  days  and  death 
Of  toilsome  men,  beyond  the  western  seas ; 

The  Gods  are  heedless  of  their  painful  breath. 
And  love  them  not,  for  they  are  not  as  these ; 
But  in  the  golden  west  they  live  and  lie  at  ease. 


Yet  the  Phaeacians  well  they  love,  who  live 

At  the  light's  limit,  passing  careless  hours, 
Most  like  the  Gods ;  and  they  have  gifts  to  give, 
Even  wine,  and  fountains  musical,  and  flowers. 
And  song,  and  if  they  will,  swift  ships,  and  magic  powers. 
104 


POST  HOMERIC/1. 

It  is  a  quiet  midland ;   in  the  cool 

Of  twilight  comes  the  God,  though  no  man  prayed, 
To  watch  the  maids  and  young  men  beautiful 

Dance,  and  they  see  him,  and  are  not  afraid. 
For  they  are  near  of  kin  to  Gods,  and  undismayed. 


Ah,  would  the  bright  red  prows  might  bring  us  nigh 
The  dreamy  isles  that  the  Immortals  keep ! 

But  with  a  mist  they  hide  them  wondrously. 

And  far  the  path  and  dim  to  where  they  sleep, — 
The  loved,  the  shadowy  lands  along  the  shadowy  deep. 


THE    DEPARTURE    FROM    PH/EACIA. 

THE    PH^ACIANS. 

WHY  from  the  dreamy  meadows, 
More  fair  than  any  dream, 
Why  will  you  seek  the  shadows 
Beyond  the  ocean  stream  ? 

Through  straits  of  storm  and  peril, 
Through  firths  unsailed  before, 

Why  make  you  for  the  sterile. 
The  dark  Kimmerian  shore  ? 

There  no  bright  streams  are  flowing, 
There  day  and  night  are  one, 

No  harvest  time,  no  sowing, 
No  sight  of  any  sun ; 

No  sound  of  song  or  tabor, 

No  dance  shall  greet  you  there ; 

No  noise  of  mortal  labour, 
Breaks  on  the  blind  chill  air. 

io6 


POST   HOMERICA. 

Are  ours  not  happy  places, 

Where  Gods  with  mortals  trod  ? 

Saw  not  our  sires  the  faces 
Of  many  a  present  God  ? 

THE    SEEKERS. 

Nay,  now  no  God  comes  hither, 
In  shape  that  men  may  see ; 

They  fare  we  know  not  whither, 
We  know  not  what  they  be. 

Yea,  though  the  sunset  lingers 
Far  in  your  fairy  glades, 

Though  yours  the  sweetest  singers, 
Though  yours  the  kindest  maids. 

Yet  here  be  the  true  shadows. 
Here  in  the  doubtful  light ; 

Amid  the  dreamy  meadows 
No  shadow  haunts  the  night. 

We  seek  a  city  splendid. 
With  light  beyond  the  sun  ; 

Or  lands  where  dreams  are  ended. 

And  works  and  days  are  done. 

107 


A    BALLAD    OF    DEPARTURE.* 

FAIR  white  bird,  what  song  art  thou  singmg 
In  wintry  weather  of  lands  o'er  sea  ? 
Dear  white  bird,  what  way  art  thou  winging, 
Where  no  grass  grows,  and  no  green  tree  ? 

I  looked  at  the  far  off  fields  and  grey. 
There  grew  no  tree  but  the  cypress  tree, 

That  bears  sad  fruits  with  the  flowers  of  May, 
And  whoso  looks  on  it,  woe  is  he. 

And  whoso  eats  of  the  fruit  thereof 
Has  no  more  sorrow,  and  no  more  love  ; 
And  who  sets  the  same  in  his  garden  stead, 
In  a  little  space  he  is  waste  and  dead. 

We  seek  a  city  splendid, 

With  light  beyond  the  sun  ; 
Or  lands  where  dreams  are  ended, 

And  works  and  days  are  done. 

*  From  the  Romaic. 
io8 


THEY    HEAR    THE    SIRENS    FOR    THE 
SECOND    TIME. 

THE  weary  sails  a  moment  slept, 
The  oars  were  silent  for  a  space, 
As  past  Hesperian  shores  we  swept, 
That  were  as  a  remembered  face 
Seen  after  lapse  of  hopeless  years. 

In  Hades,  when  the  shadows  meet. 
Dim  through  the  mist  of  many  tears, 

And  strange,  and  though  a  shadow,  sweet. 

So  seemed  the  half-remembered  shore, 

That  slumbered,  mirrored  in  the  blue. 
With  havens  where  we  touched  of  yore. 

And  ports  that  over  well  we  knew. 
Then  broke  the  calm  before  a  breeze 

That  sought  the  secret  of  the  west ; 
And  listless  all  we  swept  the  seas 

Towards  the  Islands  of  the  Blest. 
109 


POST  HOMERICA. 

Beside  a  golden  sanded  bay 

We  saw  the  Sirens,  very  fair 
The  flowery  hill  whereon  they  lay, 

The  flowers  set  upon  their  hair. 
Their  old  sweet  song  came  down  the  wind, 

Remembered  music  waxing  strong. 
Ah  now  no  need  of  cords  to  bind, 

No  need  had  we  of  Orphic  song. 

It  once  had  seemed  a  little  thing, 

To  lay  our  lives  down  at  their  feet, 
That  dying  we  might  hear  them  sing, 

And  dying  see  their  faces  sweet; 
But  now,  we  glanced,  and  passing  by, 

No  care  had  we  to  tarry  long ; 
Faint  hope,  and  rest,  and  memory 

Were  more  than  any  Siren's  song. 


CIRCE'S    ISLE    REVISITED. 

AH,  Circe,  Circe!  in  the  wood  we  cried; 
Ah,  Circe,  Circe  !  but  no  voice  repHed ; 
No  voice  from  bowers  o'ergrown  and  ruinous 
As  fallen  rocks  upon  the  mountain  side. 

There  was  no  sound  of  singing  in  the  air ; 
Faded  or  fled  the  maidens  that  were  fair, 

No  more  for  sorrow  or  joy  were  seen  of  us, 
No  light  of  laughing  eyes,  or  floating  hair. 

The  perfume,  and  the  music,  and  the  flame 
Had  passed  away;  the  memory  of  shame 
Alone  abode,  and  stings  of  faint  desire, 
And  pulses  of  vague  quiet  went  and  came. 

Ah,  Circe  !  in  thy  sad  changed  fairy  place. 

Our  dead  Youth  came  and  looked  on  us  a  space, 

With  drooping  wings,  and  eyes  of  faded  fire, 
And  wasted  hair  about  a  weary  face. 


POST  HOMERICA. 

Why  had  we  ever  sought  the  magic  isle 
That  seemed  so  happy  in  the  days  erewhile? 

Why  did  we  ever  leave  it,  where  we  met 
A  world  of  happy  wonders  in  one  smile  ? 

Back  to  the  westward  and  the  waning  light 
We  turned,  we  fled ;   the  solitude  of  night 

Was  better  than  the  infinite  regret, 
In  fallen  places  of  our  dead  delight. 


THE    LIMIT    OF    LANDS. 

BETWEEN  the  circling  ocean  sea 
And  the  poplars  of  Persephone 
There  lies  a  strip  of  barren  sand, 
Flecked  with  the  sea's  last  spray,  and  strown 
With  waste  leaves  of  the  poplars,  blown 
From  gardens  of  the  shadow  land. 

With  altars  of  old  sacrifice 

The  shore  is  set,  in  mournful  wise 

The  mists  upon  the  ocean  brood  ; 
Between  the  water  and  the  air 
The  clouds  are  born  that  float  and  fare 

Between  the  water  and  the  wood. 

Upon  the  grey  sea  never  sail 

Of  mortals  passed  within  our  hail. 

Where  the  last  weak  waves  faint  and  flow; 
We  heard  within  the  poplar  pale 
The  murmur  of  a  doubtful  wail 

Of  voices  loved  so  long  ago. 


POST   HOMERICA. 

We  scarce  had  care  to  die  or  live, 
We  had  no  honey  cake  to  give, 

No  wine  of  sacrifice  to  shed ; 
There  Ues  no  new  path  over  sea, 
And  now  we  know  how  faint  they  be. 

The  feasts  and  voices  of  the  Dead. 

Ah,  flowers  and  dance  !   ah,  sun  and  snow  ! 
Glad  life,  sad  life  we  did  forego 

To  dream  of  quietness  and  rest ; 
Ah,  would  the  fleet  sweet  roses  here 
Poured  light  and  perfume  through  the  drear 

Pale  year,  and  wan  land  of  the  west. 

Sad  youth,  that  let  the  spring  go  by 
Because  the  spring  is  swift  to  fly. 

Sad  youth,  that  feared  to  mourn  or  love. 
Behold  how  sadder  far  is  this. 
To  know  that  rest  is  nowise  bliss, 

And  darkness  is  the  end  thereof. 


THE    SHADE    OF    HELEN. 

Some  say  that  Helen  went  never  to  Troy,  but  abode  in  Egypt ;  for  the  Gods, 
having  made  in  her  semblance  a  woman  out  of  clouds  and  shadows,  sent  the 
same  to  be  wife  to  Paris.  For  this  shadow  then  the  Greeks  and  Trojans  slew 
each  other. 

(Written  in  the  Pyrenees.) 

WHY  from  the  quiet  hollows  of  the  hills, 
And  extreme  meeting  place  of  light  and  shade, 
Wherein  soft  rains  fell  slowly,  and  became 
Clouds  among  sister  clouds,  where  fair  spent  beams 
And  dying  glories  of  the  sun  would  dwell. 
Why  have  they  whom  I  know  not,  nor  may  know, 
Strange  hands,  unseen  and  ruthless,  fashioned  me, 
And  borne  me  from  the  silent  shadowy  hills, 
Hither,  to  noise  and  glow  of  alien  life, 
To  harsh  and  clamorous  swords,  and  sound  of  war? 
One  speaks  unto  me  words  that  would  be  sweet, 
Made  harsh,  made  keen  with  love  that  knows  me  not. 
And  some  strange  force,  within  me  or  around, 

"5 


POST  HOMERICA. 

Makes  answer,  kiss  for  kiss,  and  sigh  for  sigh, 
And  somewhere  there  is  fever  in  the  halls. 
That  troubles  me,  for  no  such  trouble  came 
To  vex  the  cool  far  hollows  of  the  hills. 

The  foolish  folk  crowd  round  me,  and  they  cry. 
That  house,  and  wife,  and  lands,  and  all  Troy  town, 
Are  little  to  lose,  if  they  may  hold  me  here. 
And  see  me  flit,  a  pale  and  silent  shade. 
Among  the  streets  bereft,   and  helpless  shrines. 

At  other  hours  another  life  seems  mine, 

Where  one  great  river  runs  unswollen  of  rain, 

By  pyramids  of  unremembered  kings, 

And  homes  of  men  obedient  to  the  Dead. 

There  dark  and  quiet  faces  come  and  go 

Around  me,  then  again  the  shriek  of  arms, 

And  all  the  turmoil  of  the  Ilian  men. 

What  are  they?  even  shadows  such  as  1. 

What  make  they?    Even  this  —  the  sport  of  Gods — 

The  sport  of  Gods,  however  free  they  seem. 

Ah  would  the  game  were  ended,  and  the  light, 

The  blinding  light,  and  all  too  mighty  suns. 

Withdrawn,  and  I  once  more  with  sister  shades. 

Unloved,  forgotten,  mingled  with  the  mist. 

Dwelt  in  the  hollows  of  the  shadowy  hills. 

ii6 


PISIDICE. 

The  incident  is  from  the  Love  Stories  of  Partheniiis,  who  preserved  fragments 
of  a  lost  epic  on  the  expedition  of  Achilles  against  Lesbos,  an  island  allied 
with  Troy. 

THE  daughter  of  the  Lesbian  king 
Within  her  bower  she  watched  the  war, 
Far  off  she  heard  the  arrows  ring, 

The  smitten  harness  ring  afar  ; 
And,  fighting  from  the  foremost  car, 

Saw  one  that  smote  where  all  must  flee  ; 
More  fair  than  the  Immortals  are 
He  seemed  to  fair  Pisidice ! 

She  saw,  she  loved  him,  and  her  heart 

Before  Achilles,  Peleus'  son, 
Threw  all  its  guarded  gates  apart, 

A  maiden  fortress  lightly  won  ! 
And,  ere  that  day  of  fight  was  done, 

No  more  of  land  or  faith  recked  she, 
But  joyed  in  her  new  life  begun, — 

Her  life  of  love,  Pisidice  ! 


POST  HOMERICA. 

She  took  a  gift  into  her  hand, 

\.s  one  that  had  a  boon  to  crave ; 
She  stole  across  the  ruined  land 

Where  lay  the  dead  without  a  grave, 
And  to  Achilles'  hand  she  gave 

Her  gift,  the  secret  postern's  key. 
"  To-morrow  let  me  be  thy  slave  !  " 

Moaned  to  her  love  Pisidice. 

Ere  dawn  the  Argives'  clarion  call 

Rang  down  Methymna's  burning  street ; 
They  slew  the  sleeping  warriors  all, 

They  drove  the  women  to  the  fleet, 
Save  one,  that  to  Achilles'  feet 

Clung,  but,  in  sudden  wrath,  cried  he  : 
"  For  her  no  doom  but  death  is  meet." 

And  there  men  stoned  Pisidice. 

In  havens  of  that  haunted  coast. 

Amid  the  myrtles  of  the  shore. 
The  moon  sees  many  a  maiden  ghost, — 

Love's  outcast  now  and  evermore. 
The  silence  hears  the  shades  deplore 

Tlicir  hour  of  dear-bought  love  ;   but  thee 
The  waves  lull,  'neath  thine  olives  hoar. 

To  dreamless  rest,  Pisidice  ! 


SONNETS 


119 


THE    ODYSSEY. 

AS  one  that  for  a  weary  space  has  lain 
Lulled  by  the  song  of  Circe  and  her  wine 
In  gardens  near  the  pale  of  Proserpine, 
Where  that  ^aean  isle  forgets  the  main, 
And  only  the  low  lutes  of  love  complain, 
And  only  shadows  of  wan  lovers  pine, 
As  such  aa  one  were  glad  to  know  the  brine 
Salt  on  his  lips,  and  the  large  air  again, — 
So  gladly,  from  the  songs  of  modern  speech 
Men  turn,  and  see  the  stars,  and  feel  the  free 
Shrill  wind  beyond  the  close  of  heavy  flowers. 
And  through  the  music  of  the  languid  hours. 
They  hear  like  ocean  on  a  western  beach 
The  surge  and  thunder  of  the  Odyssey. 


TWO    SONNETS    OF    THE    SIRENS. 


'  Les  Sirenes  estoient  tant  intimes  amies  et  fideUes  compagnes  de  Proserpine, 
qu'  elles  estoient  toujours  ensemble.  Esmues  du  juste  deuil  de  la  perte  de 
leur  chere  compagne,  et  enuy6es  jusques  au  desespoir,  elles  s'arresterent  a 
la  mer  Sicilienne,  oil  par  leurs  chants  elles  attiroient  les  navigans,  mais 
I'unique  fin  de  la  volupte  de  leur  musique  est  la  Mort." — Pontus  de  Tyard 

1570- 


THE  Sirens  once  were  maidens  innocent 
That  through  the  water-meads  with  Proserpine 
Plucked  no  fire-hearted  flowers,  but  were  content 

Cool  fritillaries  and  flag-flowers  to  twine, 

With  lilies  woven  and  with  wet  woodbine ; 
Till  forth  to  seek  vEtneean  buds  they  went, 
And  their  kind  lady  from  their  choir  was  rent 

By  Hades,  down  the  irremeable  decline. 
And  they  have  sought  her  all  the  wide  world  through, 

Till  many  years,  and  wisdom,  and  much  wrong, 
Have  filled  and  changed  their  song,  and  o'er  the  blue 

Rings  deadly  sweet  the  magic  of  the  song, 
And  whoso  hears  must  listen  till  he  die 
Far  on  the  flowery  shores  of  Sicily. 


SONNETS. 
II. 

So  is  it  with  this  singing  art  of  ours, 

That  once  with  maids  went,  maidenhke,  and  played 
With  woven  dances  in  the  poplar-shade, 

And  all  her  song  was  but  of  lady's  bowers 

And  the  returning  swallows,   and  spring-flowers, 
Till  forth  to  seek  a  shadow-queen  she  strayed, 
A  shadowy  land  ;  and  now  hath  overweighed 

Her  singing  chaplet  with  the  snow  and  showers. 

And  running  rivers  for  the  bitter  brine 
She  left,  and  by  the  margin  of  life's  sea 

Sings,  and  her  song  is  full  of  the  sea's  moan, 

And  wild  with  dread,  and  love  of  Proserpine ; 
And  whoso  once  has  listened  to  her,  he 
His  whole  life  long  is  slave  to  her  alone. 


LOVE'S   EASTER. 

i 


SONNET. 


LOVE  died  here 
Long  ago ; 
O'er  his  bier, 
Lying  low, 
Poppies  throw ; 
Shed  no  tear; 
Year  by  year, 
Roses  blow  ! 

Year  by  year, 
Adon  —  dear 

To  Love's  Queen  — 

Does  not  die  ! 

Wakes  when  green 

May  is  nigh  ! 


TWILIGHT. 

SONNET. 
(after   RICHEPIN.) 

LIGHT  has  flown  ! 
Through  the  grey 
The  wind's  way 
The  sea's  moan 
Sound  alone  ! 
For  the  day 
These  repay 
And  atone  ! 

Scarce  I   know, 
Listening  so 
To  the  streams 

Of  the  sea, 
If  old  dreams 
Sing  to  me  ! 

IZ5 


BION. 

THE  wail  of  Moschus  on  the  mountains  crying 
The  Muses  heard,  and  loved  it  long  ago; 
They  heard  the  hollows  of  the  hills  replying, 
They  heard  the  weeping  water's  overflow; 
They  winged  the  sacred  strain  —  the  song  undying, 

The  song  that  all  about  the  world  must  go, — 
When  poets  for  a  poet  dead  are  sighing, 
The  minstrels  for  a  minstrel  friend  laid  low. 

And  dirge  to  dirge  that  answers,  and  the  weeping 

For  Adonais  by  the  summer  sea, 
The  plaints  for  Lycidas,  and  Thyrsis  (sleeping 

Far  from  "  the  forest  ground  called  Thessaly"),— 
These  hold  thy  memory,  Bion,  in  their  keeping. 

And  are  but  echoes  of  the  moan  for  thee. 


136 


SAN    TERENZO. 


(The  village  in  the  bay  of  Spezia,  near  which  Shelley  was  living  before  the 
wreck  of  the  Don  Juan.) 


MID  April  seemed  like  some  November  day, 
When  through  the  glassy  waters,  dull  as  lead, 
Our  boat,  like  shadowy  barques  that  bear  the  dead, 
Slipped  down  the  curved  shores  of  the  Spezian  bay, 
Rounded  a  point, — and  San  Terenzo  lay 
Before  us,  that  gay  village,  yellow  and  red. 
With  walls  that  covered  Shelley's  homeless  head, — 
His  house,  a  place  deserted,  bleak  and  grey. 

The  waves  broke  on  the  door-step;   fishermen 
Cast  their  long  nets,  and  drew,  and  cast  again. 
Deep  in  the  ilex  woods  we  wandered  free, 

When  suddenly  the  forest  glades  were  stirred 
With  waving  pinions,  and  a  great  sea  bird 

Flew  forth,  like  Shelley's  spirit,  to  the  sea ! 


o 


NATURAL   THEOLOGY. 


enei  Koi   toCtoi-  biofiai   aOavdroKTiv 

eup^ecrOaf     Havre';  Sk  0eii^  \aTiov(T'  av6punroi- 

Od.   III.   47. 

^^  / — \  NCE  Cagn  was  like  a  father,   kind  and  good, 
But  He  was  spoiled  by  fighting  many  things; 
He  wars  upon  the  lions  in  the  wood, 

And  breaks  the  Thunder-bird's  tremendous  wings ; 
But  still  we  cry  to  Him, —  PVe  are  thy  brood — 

O  Cagn,  be  merciful  /  and  us  He  brings 

To  herds  of  elands,  and  great  store  of  food, 

And  in  the  desert  opens  water-springs." 


So  Qing,   King  Nqsha's  Bushman  hunter,  spoke, 
Beside  the  camp-fire,  by  the  fountain  fair. 

When  all  were  weary,  and  soft  clouds  of  smoke 
Were  fading,  fragrant,  in  the  twilit  air  : 

And  suddenly  in  each  man's  heart  there  woke 
A  pang,  a  sacred  memory  of  prayer. 


128 


HOMER. 

HOMER,  thy  song  men  liken  to  the  sea, 
With  all  the  notes  of  music  in  its  tone, 
With  tides  that  wash  the  dim  dominion 
Of  Hades,  and  light  waves  that  laugh  in  glee 
Around  the  isles  enchanted  ;   nay,   to  me 

Thy  verse  seems  as  the  River  of  source  unknown 
That  glasses  Egypt's  temples  overthrown 
In  his  sky-nurtured  stream,  eternally. 

No  wiser  we  than  men  of  heretofore 

To  find  thy  sacred  fountains  guarded  fast ; 

Enough,   thy  flood  makes  green  our  human  shore, 
As  Nilus  Egypt,   rolling  down  his  vast 

His  fertile  flood,  that  murmurs  evermore 

Of  gods  dethroned,  and  empires  in  the  past. 


M 


RONSARD. 

ASTER,  I  see  thee  with  the  locks  of  grey, 
Crowned  by  the  Muses  with  the  laurel- wreath ; 
I  see  the  roses  hiding  underneath, 
Cassandra's  gift ;  she  was  less  dear  than  they. 
Thou,  Master,  first  hast  roused  the  lyric  lay, 

The  sleeping  song  that  the  dead  years  bequeath, 
Hast  sung  thine  answer  to  the  songs  that  breathe 
Through  ages,  and  through  ages  far  away. 

And  thou  hast  heard  the  pulse  of  Pindar  beat. 
Known  Horace  by  the  fount  Bardusian  ! 

Their  deathless  line  thy  living  strains  repeat, 
But  ah,  thy  voice  is  sad,  thy  roses  wan, 

But  ah,  thy  honey  is  not  cloying  sweet. 
Thy  bees  have  fed  on  yews   Sardinian. 


GERARD    DE    NERVAL. 

OF  all  that  were  thy  prisons — ah,  untamed, 
Ah,  light  and  sacred  soul  ! — -none  holds  thee  now; 

No  wall,  no  bar,  no  body  of  flesh,  but  thou 
Art  free  and  happy  in  the  lands  unnamed. 
Within  whose  gates,   with  weary  wings  and  maimed, 

Thou  still  would'st  bear  that  mystic  golden  bough 

The  Sibyl  doth  to  singing  men  allow. 
Yet  thy  report  folk  heeded  not,  but  blamed. 

And  they  would  smile  and  wonder,  seeing  where 
Thou  stood'st,  to  watch  light  leaves,  or  clouds,  or  wind, 

Dreamily  murmuring  a  ballad  air. 
Caught  from  the  Valois  peasants  ;  dost  thou  find 

A  new  life  gladder  than  the  old  times  were, 
A  love  as  fair  as  Sylvie,  and  more  kind  ? 


IN    ITHACA, 


'  And  now  am  I  greatly  repenting  that  ever  I  left  my  life  with  thee,  and  the 
immortality  thou  didst  promise  me." — Letter  of  Odysseus  to  Calypso. 
Luciani  Vera  Historia. 


'^  I  ""IS  thought  Odysseus  when  the  strife  was  o'er 
1  With  all  the  waves  and  wars,  a  weary  while, 
Grew  restless  in  his  disenchanted  isle, 

And  still  would  watch  the  sunset,  from  the  shore, 

Go  down  the  ways  of  gold,  and  evermore 
His  sad  heart  followed  after,  mile  on  mile, 
Back  to  the  Goddess  of  the  magic  wile. 

Calypso,  and  the  love  that  was  of  yore. 

Thou  too,  thy  haven  gained,  must  turn  thee  yet 
To  look  across  the  sad  and  stormy  space. 
Years  of  a  youth  as  bitter  as  the  sea, 

Ah,  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  eyelids  wet. 
Because,  within  a  fair  forsaken  place 
The  life  that  might  have  been  is  lost  to  thee. 


132 


DREAMS. 

HE  spake  not  truth,  however  wise,*  who  said 
"  That  happy,  and  that  hapless  men  in  sleep 
Have  equal  fortune,  fallen  from  care  as  deep 
As  countless,  careless,  races  of  the  dead." 
Not  so,  for  alien  paths  of  dreams  we  tread, 
And  one  beholds  the  faces  that  he  sighs 
In  vain  to  bring  before  his  daylit  eyes. 
And  waking,  he  remembers  on  his  bed ; 

And  one  with  fainting  heart  and  feeble  hand 
Fights  a  dim  battle  in  a  doubtful  land, 

Where  strength  and  courage  were  of  no  avail ; 
And  one  is  borne  on  fairy  breezes  far 
To  the  bright  harbours  of  a  golden  star 

Down  fragrant  fleeting  waters  rosy  pale. 

*  Aristotle. 


HOMERIC    UNITY. 

THE  sacred  keep  of  Ilion  is  rent 
With  trench  and  shaft ;   foiled  waters  wander  slow 
Through  plains  where  Simois  and  Scamander  went 
To  war  with  Gods  and  heroes  long  ago. 
Not  yet  to  tired  Cassandra,  lying  low 
In  rich  Mycenae,  do  the  Fates  relent : 

The  bones  of  Agamemnon  are  a  show, 
And  ruined  is  his  royal  monument. 

The  dust  and  awful  treasures  of  the  Dead, 

Hath  Learning  scattered  wide,  but  vainly  thee. 

Homer,  she  meteth  with  her  tool  of  lead, 

And  strives  to  rend  thy  songs ;   too  blind  to  see 

The  crown  that  burns  on  thine  immortal  head 
Of  indivisible  supremacy  ! 


»34 


IDEAL. 


Suggested  by  a  female  head  in  wax,  of  unknown  date,  but  supposed  to  be  either 
of  the  best  Greek  age,  or  a  work  of  Raphael  or  Leonardo.  It  is  now  in  the 
Lille  Museum. 


AH,  mystic  child  of  Beauty,  nameless  maid, 
Dateless  and  fatherless,  how  long  ago, 
A  Greek,  with  some  rare  sadness  overweighed, 
Shaped  thee,  perchance,  and  quite  forgot  his  woe  ! 
Or  Raphael  thy  sweetness  did  bestow, 
While  magical  his  fingers  o'er  thee  strayed, 

Or  that  great  pupil  of  Verrocchio 
Redeemed  thy  still  perfection  from  the  shade 

That  hides  all  fair  things  lost,  and  things  unborn. 
Where  one  has  fled  from  me,  that  wore  thy  grace. 
And  that  grave  tenderness  of  thine  awhile  ; 

Nay,  still  in  dreams  I  see  her,  but  her  face 
Is  pale,  is  wasted  with  a  touch  of  scorn, 
And  only  on  thy  lips  I  find  her  smile. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


137 


HYMN    TO    THE    WINDS. 

The  winds  are  invoked  by  the  winnowers  of  com. 

Du  Bellay,  1550. 

TO  you,  troop  so  fleet, 
That  with  winged  wandering  feet 

Through  the  wide  world  pass, 
And  with  soft  murmuring 
Toss  the  green  shades  of  spring 

In  woods  and  grass, 
Lily  and  violet 
I  give,  and  blossoms  wet, 

Roses  and  dew  ; 
This  branch  of  blushing  roses, 
Whose  fresh  bud  uncloses. 

Wind-flowers  too. 
Ah,  winnow  with  sweet  breath. 
Winnow  the  holt  and  heath, 

Round  this  retreat ; 
Where  all  the  golden  morn 
We  fan  the  gold  o'  the  corn 

In  the  sun's  heat. 
139 


A   VOW    TO    HEAVENLY   VENUS. 

Du  Bellay,  1550. 

WE  that  with  like  hearts  love,  we  lovers  twain, 
New  wedded  in  the  village  by  thy  fane, 
Lady  of  all  chaste  love,  to  thee  it  is 
We  bring  these  amaranths,  these  white  lilies, 
A  sign,  and  sacrifice  ;   may  Love,  we  pray, 
Like  amaranthine  flowers,  feel  no  decay  ; 
Like  these  cool  lilies  may  our  loves  remain. 
Perfect  and  pure,  and  know  not  any  stain  ; 
And  be  our  hearts,  from  this  thy  holy  hour, 
Bound  each  to  each,  like  flower  to  wedded  flower. 


140 


APRIL. 

Remy  Belleau,  i§6o. 

APRIL,  pride  of  woodland  ways, 
Of  glad  days, 
April,  bringing  hope  of  prime 

To  the  young  flowers  that  beneath 
Their  bud  sheath 
Are  guarded  in  their  tender  time  ; 

April,  pride  of  fields  that  be 

Green  and  free. 
That  in  fashion  glad  and  gay 
Stud  with  flowers  red  and  blue. 

Every  hue. 
Their  jewelled  spring  array  ; 
141 


TRANSLATIONS. 

April,   pride  of  murmuring 

Winds  of  spring, 
That  beneath  the  winnowed  air 
Trap  with  subtle  nets  and  sweet 

Flora's  feet. 
Flora's  feet,  the  fleet  and  fair ; 

April,  by  thy  hand  caressed, 

From  her  breast 
Nature  scatters  everywhere 
Handfuls  of  all  sweet  perfumes, 

Buds  and  blooms, 
Making  faint  the  earth  and  air. 

April,  joy  of  the  green  hours, 

Clothes  with  flowers 
Over  all  her  locks  of  gold 
My  sweet  Lady  ;   and  her  breast 

With  the  blest 
Buds  of  summer  manifold. 

April,  with  thy  gracious  wiles. 

Like  the  smiles, 
Smiles  of  Venus  ;   and  thy  breath 
Like  her  breath,  the  Gods'  delight, 

(From  their  height 
They  take  the  happy  air  beneath  ;  ) 


TR/INSLATIONS. 

It  is  thou  that,  of  thy  grace, 

From  their  place 
In  the  far-off  isles  dost  bring 
Swallows  over  earth  and  sea, 

Glad  to  be 
Messengers  of  thee,  and  Spring. 

Daffodil  and  eglantine. 

And  woodbine, 
Lily,  violet,  and  rose 
Plentiful  in  April  fair, 

To  the  air, 
Their  pretty  petals  do  unclose. 

Nightingales  ye  now  may  hear, 

Piercing  clear. 
Singing  in  the  deepest  shade  ; 
Many  and  many  a  babbled  note 

Chime  and  float, 
Woodland  music  through  the  glade. 

April,  all  to  welcome  thee. 

Spring  sets  free 
Ancient  flames,  and  with  low  breath 
Wakes  the  ashes  grey  and  old 

That  the  cold 
Chilled  within  our  hearts  to  death. 

M3 


TRANSLATIONS. 

Thou  beholdest  in  the  warm 

Hours,  the  swarm 
Of  the  thievish  bees,  that  flies 
Evermore  from  bloom  to  bloom 

For  perfume, 
Hid  away  in  tiny  thighs. 

Her  cool  shadows  May  can  boast, 

Fruits  almost 
Ripe,  and  gifts  of  fertile  dew, 
Manna-sweet  and  honey-sweet. 

That  complete 
Her  flower  garland  fresh  and  new. 

Nay,  but  I  will  give  my  praise 

To  these  days. 
Named  with  the  glad  name  of  her* 
That  from  out  the  foam  o'  the  sea 

Came  to  be 
Sudden  light  on  earth  and  air. 

*  Aphrodite  —  Avril. 


OF    HIS    LADY'S    OLD    AGE. 

Ronsard,  1550. 

WHEN  you  are  very  old,   at  evening 
You  '11  sit  and  spin  beside  the  fire,  and  say, 
Humming  my  songs,   "Ah  well,  ah  well-a-day  ! 
When  I  was  young,  of  me  did  Ronsard  sing." 
None  of  your  maidens  that  doth  hear  the  thing, 
Albeit  with  her  weary  task  foredone, 
But  wakens  at  my  name,  and  calls  you  one 
Blest,  to  be  held  in  long  remembering. 

I  shall  be  low  beneath  the  earth,  and  laid 
On  sleep,  a  phantom  in  the  myrtle  shade, 

While  you  beside  the  fire,   a  grandame  grey, 
My  love,  your  pride,  remember  and  regret ; 
Ah,  love  me,  love  !  we  may  be  happy  yet. 

And  gather  roses,  while  't  is  called  to-day. 


SHADOWS    OF    HIS    LADY. 

Jacques  TaJmreau,  i52']-i^^^. 

WITHIN  the  sand  of  what  far  river  lies 
The  gold  that  gleams  in  tresses  of  my  Love? 
What  highest  circle  of  the  Heavens  above 
Is  jewelled  with  such  stars  as  are  her  eyes  ? 
And  where  is  the  rich  sea  whose  coral  vies 
With  her  red  lips,   that  cannot  kiss  enough  ? 
What  dawn-lit  garden  knew  the  rose,  whereof 
The  fled  soul  lives  in  her  cheeks'  rosy  guise? 

What  Parian  marble  that  is  loveliest, 

Can  match  the  whiteness  of  her  brow  and  breast? 

When  drew  she  breath  from  the  Saba^an  glade? 
Oh  happy  rock  and  river,  sky  and  sea. 
Gardens,  and  glades  Sabeean,  all  that  be 

The  far-off  splendid  semblance  of  my  maid ! 


146 


MOONLIGHT. 

Jacques  TaJmreau,  1527-1555- 

THE  high  Midnight  was  garlanding  her  head 
With  many  a  shining  star  in  shining  skies, 
And,  of  her  grace,  a  slumber  on  mine  eyes. 

And,  after  sorrow,  quietness  was  shed. 
Far  in  dim  fields  cicalas  jargoned 

A  thin  shrill  clamour  of  complaints  and  cries ; 
And  all  the  woods  were  pallid,  in  strange  wise, 
With  pallor  of  the  sad  moon  overspread.  * 

Then  came  my  lady  to  that  lonely  place, 
And,  from  her  palfrey  stooping,  did  embrace 
And  hang  upon  my  neck,  and  kissed  me  over; 

Wherefore  the  day  is  far  less  dear  than  night, 
And  sweeter  is  the  shadow  than  the  light, 

Since  night  has  made  me  such  a  happy  lover. 


THE  GRAVE  AND  THE  ROSE. 

VICTOR    HUGO. 

THE  Grave  said  to  the  Rose, 
"  What  of  the  dews  of  dawn, 
Love's  flower,  what  end  is  theirs  ? " 

"  And  what  of  spirits  flown. 
The  souls  whereon  doth  close 

The  tomb's  mouth  unawares  ?  " 
The  Rose  said  to  the  Grave. 

The  Rose  said,   "  In  the  shade 
From  the  dawn's  tears  is  made 

A  perfume  faint  and  strange, 
Amber  and  honey  sweet." 
"And  all  the  spirits  fleet 

Do  suff'er  a  sky-change. 

More  strangely  than  the  dew, 
To  God's  own  angels  new," 

The  Grave  said  to  tlie  Rose. 


148 


THE    BIRTH    OF    BUTTERFLIES. 

VICTOR    HUGO. 

THE  dawn  is  smiling  on  the  dew  that  covers 
The  tearful  roses ;  lo,  the  little  lovers 
That  kiss  the  buds,  and  all  the  flutterings 
In  jasmine  bloom,  and  privet,  of  white  wings, 
That  go  and  come,  and  fly,  and  peep  and  hide, 
With  muffled  music,  murmured  far  and  wide  ! 
Ah,   Spring  time,  when  we  think  of  all  the  lays 
That  dreamy  lovers  send  to  dreamy  mays, 
Of  the  fond  hearts  within  a  billet  bound, 
Of  all  the  soft  silk  paper  that  pens  wound. 
The  messages  of  love  that  mortals  write 
Filled  with  intoxication  of  delight, 
Written  in  April,  and  before  the  May  time 
Shredded  and  flown,  play  things  for  the  wind's  playtime, 
We  dream  that  all  white  butterflies  above. 
Who  seek  through  clouds  or  waters  souls  to  love. 
And  leave  their  lady  mistress  in  despair. 
To  flit  to  flowers,   as  kinder  and  more  fair. 
Are  but  torn  love-letters,  that  through  the  skies 
Flutter,  and  float,  and  change  to  Butterflies. 
149 


AN    OLD    TUNE. 

GERARD    DE    NERVAL. 

THERE   is  an  air  for  which  I  would  disown 
Mozart's,  Rossini's,  Weber's  melodies, — 
A  sweet  sad  air  that  languishes  and  sighs, 
And  keeps  its  secret  charm  for  me  alone. 

Whene'er  I  hear  that  music  vague  and  old, 
Two  hundred  years  are  mist  that  rolls  away  ; 

The  thirteenth  Louis  reigns,  and  I  behold 
A  green  land  golden  in  the  dying*  day. 

An  old  red  castle,  strong  with  stony  towers. 
The  windows  gay  with  many  coloured  glass , 

Wide  plains,  and  rivers  flowing  among  flowers, 
That  bathe  the  castle  basement  as  they  pass. 

In  antique  weed,  with   dark  eyes  and  gold  hair, 
A   lady  looks  forth   from  her  window  high  ; 

It  may  be  that  I  knew  and  found  her  fair, 
In  some  forgotten  life,  long  time  gone  by. 
150 


SPRING   IN   THE   STUDENT'S  aUARTER. 

HENRI    MURGER. 

WINTER  is  passing,  and  the  bells 
For  ever  with  their  silver  lay 
Murmur  a  melody  that  tells 

Of  April  and  of  Easter  day. 
High  in  the  sweet  air  the  light  vane  sets, 

The  weathercocks  all  southward  twirl ; 
A  sou  will  buy  her  violets 
And  make  Nini  a  happy  girl. 

The  winter  to  the  poor  was  sore, 

Counting  the  weary  winter  days. 
Watching  his  little  fire-wood  store, 

The  bitter  snow-flakes  fell  always ; 
And  now  his  last  log  dimly  gleamed, 

Lighting  the  room  with  feeble  glare, 
Half  cinder  and  half  smoke  it  seemed 

That  the  wind  wafted  into  air. 
151 


TRANSLATIONS. 

Pilgrims  from  ocean  and  far  isles 

See  where  the  east  is  reddening, 
The  flocks  that  fly  a  thousand  miles 

From  sunsetting  to  sunsetting; 
Look  up,  look  out,  behold  the  swallows, 

The  throats  that  twitter,  the  wings  that  beat: 
And  on  their  song  the  summer  follows, 

And  in  the  summer  life  is  sweet. 


With  the  green  tender  buds  that  know 

The  shoot  and  sap  of  lusty  spring 
My  neighbour  of  a  year  ago 

Her  casement,  see,  is  opening ; 
Through  all  the  bitter  months  that  were, 

Forth  from  her  nest  she  dared  not  flee, 
She  was  a  study  for  Boucher, 

She  now  might  sit  to  Gavarni. 


SPRING. 

(After  Meleager.) 

NOW  the  bright  crocus  flames,  and  now 
The  sUm  narcissus  takes  the  rain, 
And,  straying  o'er  the  mountain's  brow, 
The  daffodilics  bud  again. 
The  thousand  blossoms  wax  and  wane 
On  wold,  and  heath,  and  fragrant  bough  ; 
But  fairer  than  the  flowers  art  thou. 
Than  any  growth  of  hill  or  plain. 

Ye  gardens,  cast  your  leafy  crown, 
That  my  Love's  feet  may  tread   it   down. 

Like  lilies  on  the  lilies  set ; 
My  Love,  whose  lips  are  softer  far 
Than  drowsy  poppy  petals  are. 

And  sweeter  than  the  violet  ! 


IS3 


OLD    LOVES. 

HENRI    MURGER. 

LOUISE,  have  you  forgotten  yet 
The  corner  of  the  flowery  land, 
The  ancient  garden  where  we  met, 

My  hand  that  trembled  in  your  hand  ? 
Our  lips  found  words  scarce  sweet  enough, 

As  low  beneath  the  willow-trees 
We  sat ;  have  you  forgotten,  love  ? 
Do  you  remember,  love  Louise  ? 

Marie,  have  you  forgotten  yet 

The  loving  barter  that  we  made  ? 
The  rings  we  changed,  the  suns  that  set, 

The  woods  fulfilled  with  sun  and  shade  ? 
The  fountains  that  were  musical 

By  many  an  ancient  trysting  tree  — 
Marie,  have  you  forgotten  all  ? 

Do  you  remember,  love  Marie  ? 

IS4 


TRANSLATIONS. 

Christine,  do  you  remember  yet 

Your  room  with   scents  and  roses  gay  ? 
My  garret  —  near  the  sky  't  was  set  — 

The  April  hours,  the  nights  of  May  ? 
The  clear  calm  nights  —  the  stars  above 

That  whispered  they  were  fairest  seen 
Through  no  cloud-veil  ?     Remember,  love  ! 

Do  you  remember,  love  Christine  ? 

Louise  is  dead,  and,  well-a-day  ! 

Marie  a  sadder  path  has  ta'en  ; 
And  pale  Christine  has  passed  away 

In  southern  suns  to  bloom  again. 
Alas  !  for  one  and  all  of  us  — 

Marie,  Louise,  Christine  forget ; 
Our  bower  of  love  is  ruinous, 

And  I  alone  remember  yet. 


lANNOULA. 

ROMAIC     FOLK-SONG. 

ALL  the  maidens  were  merry  and  wed 
All  to  lovers  so  fair  to  see ; 
The  lover  I  took  to  my  bridal  bed 
He  is  not  long  for  love  and  me. 

I  spoke  to  him  and  he  nothing  said, 
I  gave  him  bread  of  the  wheat  so  fine, 

He  did  not  eat  of  the  bridal  bread. 
He  did  not  drink  of  the  bridal  wine. 

I  made  him  a  bed  was  soft  and  deep, 
I  made  him  a  bed  to  sleep  with  me  ; 

"Look  on  me  once  before  you  sleep. 
And  look  on  the  flower'  of  my  fair  body. 

"Flowers  of  April,  and  fresh  May-dew, 
Dew  of  April  and  buds  of  May ; 

Two  white  blossoms  that  bud  for  you, 
Buds  that  blossom  before  the  day." 
is6 


THE    MILK    WHITE    DOE. 

FRENCH    VOLKS-LIED. 

IT  was  a  mother  and  a  maid 
That  walked  the  woods  among, 
And  still  the  maid  went  slow  and  sad, 
And  still  the  mother  sung. 

"  What  ails  you,  daughter  Margaret  ? 

Why  go  you  pale  and  wan  ? 
Is  it  for  a  cast  of  bitter  love. 

Or  for  a  false  leman  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  for  a  false  lover 

That  I  go  sad  to  see  ; 
But  it  is  for  a  weary  life 

Beneath  the  greenwood  tree. 

"  For  ever  in  the  good  daylight 

A  maiden  may  1   go, 
But  always  on  the  ninth  midnight 

I  change  to  a  milk  white  doe. 

IS7 


TRANSLylTIONS. 

"  They  hunt  me  through  the  green  forest 
With  hounds  and  hunting  men  ; 

And  ever  it  is  my  fair  brother 
That  is  so  fierce  and  keen." 


"  Good-morrow,  mother."    "  Good-morrow,  son ; 

Where  are  your  hounds  so  good  ? " 
"Oh,   they  are  hunting  a  white  doe 

Within  the  glad   greenwood. 

"  And  three  times  have  they  hunted  her, 

And  thrice  she  's  won  away ; 
The  fourth  time  that  they  follow  her 

That  white  doe  they  shall  slay." 


Then  out  and  spoke  the  forester, 
As  he  came  from  the  wood, 

"  Now  never  saw  I  maid's  gold  hair 
Among  the  wild  deer's  blood. 

"And  I  have  hunted  the  wild  deer 
In  east  lands  and  in  west ; 

And  never  saw  I  white  doe  yet 
That  had  a  maiden's  breast." 
158 


TR/1NSLATIONS. 

Then  up  and  spake  her  fair  brother, 

Between  the  wine  and  bread. 
"  Behold,   I  had  but  one  sister, 

And  I  have  been  her  dead. 

'  But  ye  must  bury  my  sweet  sister 

With  a  stone  at  her  foot  and  her  head, 
And  ye  must  cover  her  fair  body 
With  the  white  roses  and  red. 

"  And  I  must  out  to  the  greenwood. 
The  roof  shall  never  shelter  me  ; 

And  I  shall  lie  for  seven  long  years 

On  the  grass  below  the  hawthorn  tree." 


159 


A    LA    BELLE    HELENE. 

{After  Rotisard.) 

MORE  closely  than  the  clinging  vine 
About  the  wedded  tree, 
Clasp  thou  thine  arms,  ah,  mistress  mine  ! 

About  the  heart  of  me. 
Or  seem  to  sleep,  and  stoop  your  face 

Soft  on  my  sleeping  eyes, 
Breathe  in  your  life,  your  heart,  your  grace, 

Through   me,  in  kissing  wise. 
Bow  down,  bow  down  your  face,  I  pray, 

To  me,  that  swoon  to  death. 
Breathe  back  the  life  you  kissed  away. 

Breathe  back  your  kissing  breath. 
So  by  your  eyes  I  swear  and  say, 

My  mighty  oath  and  sure, 
From  your  kind  arms  no  maiden  may 

My  loving  heart  allure. 
i6o 


TRANSLATIONS. 

I  '11  bear  your  yoke,  that  's  light  enough, 

And  to  the  Elysian  plain. 
When  we  are  dead  of  love,  my  love. 

One  boat  shall  bear  us  twain. 
They  '11  flock  around  you,  fleet  and  fair, 

All  true  loves  that  have  been, 
And  you  of  all  the  shadows  there. 

Shall  be  the  shadow  queen. 
Ah  shadow-loves,  and  shadow-lips  / 

Ah,  while  V  is  called  to-day, 
Love  me,  my  love,  for  summer  slips, 

And  August  ebbs  away. 


i6i 


THE    BURIAL    OF    MOLIERE. 

(AFTER   J.    TRUFFIER.) 

DEAD  —  he  is  dead!    The  rouge  has  left  a  trace 
On  that  thin  cheek  where  shone,  perchance,  a  tear, 
Even  while  the  people  laughed  that  held  him  dear 
But  yesterday.     He  died, — and  not  in  grace, 
And  many  a  black-robed  caitiff  starts  apace 

To  slander  him  whose   Tartuffe  made  them  fear, 
And  gold  must  win  a  passage  for  his  bier. 
And  bribe  the  crowd  that  guards  his  resting-place. 

Ah,  Moliere,  for  that  last  time  of  all, 

Man's  hatred  broke  upon  thee,  and  went  by. 

And  did  but  make  more  fair  thy  funeral. 
Though  in  the  dark  they  hid  thee  stealthily, 

Thy  coffin  had  the  cope  of  night  for  pall, 
For  torch,  the  stars  along  the  windy  sky ! 


i6s 


BEFORE    THE    SNOW. 

(AFTER  ALBERT  GLATIGNY.) 

THE  winter  is  upon  us,  not  the  snow, 
The  hills  are  etched  on  the  horizon  bare, 
The  skies  are  iron  grey,  a  bitter  air, 
The  meagre  cloudlets  shudder  to  and  fro. 
One  yellow  leaf  the  listless  wind  doth  blow, 

Like  some  strange  butterfly,  unclassed  and  rare. 
Your  footsteps  ring  in  frozen  alleys,  where 
The  black  trees  seem  to  shiver  as  you  go. 

Beyond  lie  church  and  steeple,  with  their  old 
And  rusty  vanes  that  rattle  as  they  veer, 

A  sharper  gust  would  shake  them  from  their  hold. 
Yet  up  that  path,  in  summer  of  the  year. 

And  past  that  melancholy  pile  we  strolled 
To  pluck  wild  strawberries,  with  merry  cheer. 


163 


THE    CLOUD    CHORUS. 

;FR0M    ARISTOPHANES.) 

Socrates  speaks. 

HITHER,    come    hither,    ye    Clouds    renowned,    and 
unveil  yourselves  here  ; 
Come,  though  ye  dwell  on  the  sacred  crests  of  Olympian 

snow, 
Or   whether   ye    dance    with    the    Nereid    choir    in    the 

gardens   clear, 
Or  whether  your  golden  urns  are  dipped  in  Nile's  overflow. 
Or  whether  you  dwell  by  Maeotis  mere 
Or  the  snows  of  Mimas,  arise  !  appear  ! 
And  hearken  to  us,  and  accept  our  gifts  ere  ye  rise  and  go. 

The  Clouds  sing. 

Immortal  Clouds  from  the  echoing  shore 
Of  the  father  of  streams,  from  the  sounding  sea, 
Dewy  and  fleet,  let  us  rise  and  soar. 
Dewy  and  gleaming,  and  fleet  are  we  ! 

164 


TRANSLATIONS. 

Let  us  look  on  the  tree-clad  mountain  crest, 

On  the  sacred  earth  where  the  fruits  rejoice, 
On  the  waters  that  murmur  east  and  west, 

On  the  tumbling  sea  with  his  moaning  voice 
For  unwearied  glitters  the  Eye  of  the  Air, 

And  the  bright  rays  gleam  ; 
Then  cast  we  our  shadows  of  mist,  and  fare 
In  our  deathless  shapes  to  glance  everywhere 

From  the  height  of  the  heaven,  on  the  land  and  air, 
And  the  Ocean  stream. 

Let  us  on,  ye  Maidens  that  bring  the  Rain, 
Let  us  gaze  on  Pallas'  citadel, 

In  the  country  of  Cecrops,  fair  and  dear 

The  mystic  land  of  the  holy  cell. 
Where  the  Rites  unspoken  securely  dwell. 

And  the  gifts  of  the  Gods  that  know  not  stain 
And  a  people  of  mortals  that  know  not  fear. 
For  the  temples  tall,  and  the  statues  fair, 
And  the  feasts  of  the  Gods  are  holiest  there. 
The  feasts  of  Immortals,  the  chaplets  of  flowers 

And  the  Bromian  mirth  at  the  coming  of  spring, 
And  the  musical  voices  that  fill  the  hours. 

And  the  dancing  feet  of  the  Maids  that  sing  ! 


I6S 


THEO.    L.    DE  VINNE    &    CO.    PRINTERS,    NEW-YORK. 


THE  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 

STACK  COLLECTION 


^ 


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